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Livingstone turned the bag over then handed it off to Lieutenant Boucher. “Our killer came prepared. Given we now have two bodies, I’d say this is far from a crime of passion. Do you have a cause of death, Dr. Jennings?”
Stabbing. The word formed in Leigh’s mind a split second before the medical examiner corroborated her theory.
“Given the multiple stab wounds and lacerations, the victim was exsanguinated. I believe she was tortured for a long period of time, perhaps even a day before the killer dumped her body. Temperature makes it difficult to determine a time of death, but we can narrow it down within the past twelve hours. I’ve noted over two dozen lacerations, primarily focused along the arms and neck, and those are just the ones I can see right now. Whatever the case, this wasn’t a quick kill. It’s definite homicide.” Dr. Jennings waved to her assistant hiking up the trail with the thick, black body bag rolled under one arm. “I’ll be in touch once I get the remains back to Concord for examination and determine official cause of death.”
“Appreciate it.” Lieutenant Boucher passed off the evidence bag with the sample of tarp to a nearby tech, granting Leigh a full view of the victim.
Whoever’d killed Michelle Cross had wanted her to suffer. The question was why.
Cold burned down her throat. Livingstone was right. Leigh had been the only one not to give up on her brother’s case. She knew every detail, had memorized every interview, and catalogued her own record of evidence recovered from each scene where the victims had been found. “You said the first victim was discovered last week. That’s a short cooling-off period between murders. Most serial offenders use that time to relive their crime. It sustains them until the satisfaction they experienced wears thin. A case like that—even as new as last week—should’ve registered a connection in NCIC.”
The National Crime Information Center, a small piece of the puzzle that’d become the focus of Leigh’s career. Crime statistics filtered in from agencies across the country in the name of public safety. Law enforcement agencies—from local police to the FBI—had complete access in an effort to pool their information and solve the most heinous crimes, no matter how long ago they’d been committed. She’d spent hundreds of hours searching for a new lead on her brother’s case. Now she had it. So why hadn’t she been called back to Lebanon earlier?
“Except twenty years ago police were hunting a suspect who’d killed two underage boys,” Livingstone said. “Not two fully grown adults. Up until now, we had no reason to believe there was a connection, Agen’ Brody.”
Leigh tried to keep her expression neutral. “Any witnesses?”
“I’ve got a couple unis knocking on doors as we speak,” Boucher said. “Whoever dumped Michelle Cross here last night chose a hell of a location. This bridge is one of two that cross the river, but it’s mostly used by hikers and cyclists. A few cars here and there, but most people prefer to use the freeway to head north. There are two homes on the other side of these trees, but I doubt the owners got a good look at our guy.” Boucher pointed northeast through the densely packed wilderness. “Out here, you get caught in the storm, you’re done. Most of us tend to stay indoors when there’s a call for snow.”
Truth resonated through Leigh. “That’s what he was counting on.”
All eyes turned to her, and her voice threatened to fail. She’d done this countless times, for agencies with far more manpower, but the cases she’d consulted on hadn’t come close to the horror that’d torn apart this town. “The killer wanted the remains and the evidence compromised by the weather. Which means we might be looking at someone local for this. At least someone familiar with the area.”
“What kind of sick bastard would want to remove a victim’s lips?” Boucher folded his arms across his puffed jacket emblazoned with Lebanon PD’s crest. Small muscles along the lieutenant’s jaw pulsed under the weight of his back teeth clenching and releasing.
All she had was a theory at this point.
“That’s what we’re here to find out.” Director Livingstone regarded them one by one. “This is the second murder we’ve seen with this MO in a week, and we have to assume it won’t be the last. Someone is sending a message.” The director’s subtext hit Leigh harder than she expected. In an investigation of this magnitude, the things people didn’t say were almost as important as the things they did.
No. This killer wasn’t interested in the task force. He wanted Leigh. After all these years, he’d dragged her back to Lebanon. Only this time, she wouldn’t run.
“Michelle Cross and Gresham Schmidt were targeted for a reason.” Livingstone’s expression tensed with an urgency that drilled through muscle and deep into bone. “The remains will go to Concord for autopsy. If there’s even one detail off from the first victim’s report, we’ll know about it. Agen’ Brody, you’re with the lieutenant. You know this area. You know the people and the secrets this town has tried to bury. Unbury them. Dig into the original case reports and the victim’s life. Figure out what put her in this killer’s sights. As soon as this evidence is transported to Lebanon PD’s station, our federal investigator can start tracing the toy soldiers found with both victims. Any questions?” The director’s straight-edged tone shut down the possibility of protest. They were here to stop a killer from taking another life. Nothing else mattered. “Good. Get to work.”
The investigation was officially underway, and nothing would stop Leigh from getting to the truth. Even at the risk of submerging herself back into this town.
“Not sure the original case files are going to do us any good.” Boucher headed down the trail. Another layer of snow built along the asphalt but failed to slow him down. “I remember that case. I was in middle school when it all went down. Kids were disappearing, people stopped leaving their houses. I grew up fishing this river, but once those boys went missing, my mom wouldn’t let me step outside without her. I was a prisoner in my own house that whole summer.” He shook his head as her own memories flooded back. Not ones made from the sidelines as his had been. Battle wounds she’d never be able to hide.
Boucher stopped, reaching out to pull her back. He dropped his voice as his grip tightened around her arm. “You and I both know that case was closed. Joel Brody was arrested and sentenced to two counts of first-degree murder. Hell, one of the bodies was discovered under your own house, for crying out loud.” His rough exhale brushed against her jaw as he stared up the path back toward the scene.
Her father’s name—accented with a combination of terror and resentment—put her right back into her seventeen-year-old self. To the moment she’d been witness to his arrest, to his sentencing in the overpacked courtroom, to her last tearful goodbyes. He’d maintained his innocence for killing her brother and his best friend, but Boucher was right. It was hard to dispute evidence, especially when it’d been planted beneath your own home. She twisted her arm out of his hold. “If you remember the case, you’ll remember my father wasn’t the only suspect at the time. Police questioned the school psychologist. Chris Ellingson. He had the means and the opportunity to hurt those kids.”
Her heart rate ticked up a notch just voicing his name.
“Ellingson? That’s who you want to start with?” Boucher’s laugh triggered the helplessness she’d felt before leaving this damn town, but she wasn’t that scared little girl anymore. And she wouldn’t let this go. “Chief Maynor handled the investigation himself. Closing that case gave him the platform to run with the big dogs. Ellingson had an alibi during the time both boys went missing, and the chief isn’t going to be keen on us salting old wounds after what this town went through the first time around. Whatever is happening now? It’s nothing but a sick game designed to stir shit up all over again, and you being here just makes it harder to do my damn job.” He picked up the pace toward his cruiser.
She caught sight of the officer who’d tried to bar her from the scene—Officer Pierce—and she got a sneer for the effort once they reached the perimeter tape. It didn’t matter how long she’d stayed away. Her last name alone would raise the defenses of every resident in this town. No one would talk to her. She needed Boucher’s help. “You think I have something to do with this.”
The lieutenant paused on the other side of the vehicle before getting behind the wheel, hands set against the roof. “I don’t really know what to think about you, Agent Brody. Hell, I don’t even know why you’re here other than you’re the daughter of this town’s living nightmare.” He craned his attention to his right, a habit she realized he used to keep himself detached from the conversation. “It’s no secret you tried to convince everyone here your daddy didn’t kill those boys before you up and left. You didn’t have to deal with the fallout like the rest of us did, like your mama did.” His accusation cut through her. “Livingstone wants you to dig up our secrets, to talk to the very people who had to piece this town back together after your family ripped us apart. You won’t get a foot in the door.”
“Then help me.” Her fingers ached against the grip she kept on her bag. He had a point. She’d petitioned whoever would give her the time of day to see that the police had made a mistake after her father’s arrest. But it hadn’t done any good. Not for her dad. Not for her brother, and certainly not for her mother. In the end, she hadn’t been able to shoulder the hatred her friends, neighbors, and teachers had weaponized against her and her family. Her mother had lasted a while, but within two years had succumbed to the torment with the help of her father’s 9mm. Leigh hadn’t even been able to summon the courage to attend the funeral, something she’d have to live with for the rest of her life.
She had a second chance here. It didn’t matter how little field experience came with her desk job. She wouldn’t stop until she found whoever had carved her name into the bottom of these toy soldiers. “I know what you think of me, Lieutenant. I know what everyone in this town thinks of me, but I’m here to find who killed Michelle Cross and Gresham Schmidt. You and I… We want the same thing, and what happened here is not a coincidence.”
“What are you talking about?” Boucher’s brown eyes disappeared behind thick eyelashes as he locked his gaze on her. He slid his hands from the top of the cruiser, standing taller.
“I recognized Michelle Cross’s name.” It’d taken longer than it should have, but there was no doubt in her mind now. The victim had been targeted. “I thought it was because everyone knows everyone in this town, but our age differences wouldn’t have put us in the same circles.”
“So how did you recognize it?” he asked.
