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FOUR
Lebanon, New Hampshire
Thursday, March 11
4:00 p.m.
The scent she’d abhorred as a teen penetrated her pores.
A bite of sweat, cleaning products, and failed air freshener burned down her throat as Leigh stepped into the front lobby of Lebanon’s police station.
Original square gray tile set with white grout that’d seemingly gone bad butted up against the brick wall structuring the front desk. The green deposit box for unwanted medication, a trophy case beside the desk window, and a tan container meant for sharp objects hadn’t budged. The only change was a plasma screen television above the row of plastic chairs lined along the wall to her left. A simple distraction from the horrors people faced inside these walls.
Her reflection cast back at her from the trophy case’s glass. She couldn’t help but note the difference between the seventeen-year-old who’d spent countless hours in this station to the woman standing here now. Her blonde hair had grown a bit longer, nearly to her shoulders now, her skin a little more scarred from breakouts and sun damage. She’d gotten braces since then and replaced the tooth she’d chipped with a full crown a few days after her brother had disappeared. Her body wasn’t as soft as it used to be despite her intention to devour any pastry she came upon at the office. Really, Leigh wasn’t the same woman anymore, but no matter how hard she’d worked to change her outward appearance, to separate herself from this town, Lebanon would always be home.
Her outline dissipated, sharpening the shiny silver mission statement anchored into the wall behind her. She didn’t have to read it to remember the values engraved into the metal at the bottom. Accountability. Integrity. Respect. Fairness.
Promises never met. Not for her family.
“Can I help you?” the female officer behind the desk asked.
Leigh cut her gaze to the officer to get her bearings. “No. Thank you. I’m waiting for?—”
“She’s with me.” Boucher swung into the lobby with a blast of frigid outside air. He headed straight through the door she’d convinced herself held all the answers to her questions twenty years ago. “You can drop your stuff in the locker room.”
He led her through booking with its mint green cabinets, cement floors, and white-painted cages. Cinderblock walls painted in the same white failed to heat the space, and her skin tightened from the drop in temperature. Boucher motioned at the steel lockers that lined the length of the room behind a full gym. “Take your pick.”
“Thanks.” Leigh removed her laptop from the depths of her overnight bag and hauled the rest of her gear into the too-narrow locker. Pocketing the small metal key along with her brother’s soldier into her blazer pocket, she faced him. “I always tried to imagine what was on the other side of that door in the lobby. I spent so many hours out there in those damn chairs, there wasn’t much else to do.”
“What did you imagine? Rows of cells and interrogation rooms?” A hint of a crooked smile flashed uneven teeth that might’ve once been straight.
“Something like that.” Exactly like that. Her voice betrayed the uncertainty burning through her. She’d made it personal between them, shared a secret she hadn’t told anyone about that time in her life.
Rookie mistake.
It was one of the reasons she had never made many friends. The few she’d brought into her world slowly slipped out of her life as quietly as possible. Oh, your mother killed herself after your father was arrested for your brother’s murder? And you have the most boring job ever, something to do with data? Turns out, I’ve got plans this weekend. So sorry. No. Most of her nights were spent assembling the latest and greatest Lego had to offer. The colors, the order, the simplicity of each brick meant for one purpose soothed her obsessive traits. Just for a little while. The therapist her commanding officer had forced her to see after news of her mother’s suicide hit had once told her it was her way of finding control in an uncontrollable environment. Leigh preferred to think of her hobbies as a release valve. Focus on the pattern, kill the grief. Worked every time.
She collected her laptop. “Where to?”
“I’ve got Livingstone and the nerd she brought with her set up in the training room.” He wound back through the gym and into the hallway, pulling her deeper into her own personal nightmare. Logically, she knew the station was made of nothing more than brick, steel, and wood. It couldn’t hurt her, but this place had starred in one too many memories she couldn’t bury. Boucher carved a path down the hall and directed her through another door. “Welcome to the command room.”
Rows of wood tables with four office chairs each faced the podium and whiteboard at the front of the conference room. Three massive televisions hung on the main wall reflecting the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.
Director Livingstone spoke in low tones to a man Leigh hadn’t met at the scene then turned in expectation. “Agen’ Brody, Lieutenant Boucher, good. This is our federal forensic investigator, Chandler Reed. He’ll be our point man when it comes to collecting and analyzing evidence from both crime scenes.”
“Nice to meet you.” Reed stretched a tattooed hand toward Leigh. Dark hair swept off to one side and accented the unkempt, burly beard trailing down his neck. An oversized watch and a leather, braided bracelet offset the man’s deep tan and the rest of the tattoos snaking up his arm.
“You, too.” Leigh noted the calluses in Reed’s palms and a length of scar tissue failing to hide beneath the ink of a large skull and flames tattooed along his arm. From the look of the mass of designs protruding from his T-shirt collar, the investigator was long acquainted with pain. “You’re the federal investigator?”
“Let me guess. You were expecting someone less… me?” Reed shook Boucher’s hand next. Cologne tickled the back of her throat. Citrusy and tangy. Beaded necklaces struggled to free themselves from his shirt. Whatever she’d envisioned a federal investigator to look like, it wasn’t him.
“No. I just meant…” She didn’t know what she’d meant and couldn’t see a way out of the condescending question. “I mean a button-down shirt tucked into your slacks wouldn’t hurt. You could also put your cell phone clip outside your belt. Sell the part a little more.”
Director Livingstone’s laugh pulled her from the hole Leigh had dug for herself. In all honesty, she wasn’t sure the woman knew how to laugh. “He might not look like a fed, but Reed is exactly who we need on this case. The shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary, the Boston Marathon bombing, the Golden State Killer case—he’s been instrumental in every one of them. If there’s evidence that points us to a killer, Reed will be the one to find it.”
Leigh couldn’t ignore the pride resonating in the director’s voice. Reed was obviously an important part of the team, and she couldn’t help but agree with Livingstone’s assessment. All that experience would be key in proving Chris Ellingson was responsible for these latest deaths.
“The ME informed me Michelle Cross’s forensic autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow morning.” The director turned her sharp gaze to Leigh. “Have you two found anything that suggests why she was a target?”
