Page 62 of Never Stay Gone
Similarities and dissimilarities to the other victims paraded through Dakota’s mind.
None of the other victims had stab wounds in their necks. Dissimilar.
There were seven perfect finger impressions on Shelly’s throat, like the killer had started to strangle her. She’d fought back, though, and maybe he’d panicked, reacted, grabbed the first thing within reach—the photo—and broken the glass, stabbed her through the neck to end the scuffle quickly.
Similarity: strangled faceup.
Thirty-two days after Jessica’s murder. That fit the pattern. But Jane Does three and four had been murdered at around the same time. One mutilated, one not. Was that a break in the pattern, or something else?
Similarity: an apparent lack of initial surprise. No signs of forced entry. The killer hadn’t fought his way in.
Another point that would lead other investigators to think it was the fiancé.Ex-fiancé. Coming back after their fight, wanting another chance. Angry, fired up, full of passion.
But Shane didn’t do this.
Dissimilarity: defensive wounds. There was no evidence the other women had fought back, and none of them had defensive wounds on their bodies. Shelly’s fingernails were torn, and two of the fingers on her left hand were broken back at the knuckle. A deep, vivid bruise circled her right wrist, as if she’d been restrained.
The struggle had started in the dining room—knocked-over chairs, a toppled bottle of wine, a set of what looked like dainty porcelain ballerinas shattered on the wood floor. Shelly had made it from there to the living room, where she was tackled.
Fingernail marks in the carpet showed where she’d tried to claw her way forward and escape. Knee impressions on either side of her hips revealed where the killer had turned her over and straddled her. He had to be about Dakota’s height—about Shane’s height—to straddle her and wrap his hands all the way around her throat, get his thumbs dug in deep over her carotid arteries.
Was that when she clawed at him? Got those khaki fibers under her fingernails? Shelly’s hands were wrapped in plastic, any evidence carefully preserved for Dr. Trevino to analyze in El Paso.
Khaki fibers, like those from a Big Bend Sheriff’s Department uniform.
It was a crime with a perfect, tidy explanation. The ex-fiancé, a sheriff’s deputy. A fight, a breakup. Shouting. Shane appearing unbalanced, storming out of the house. Shane could be in a holding cell right now, and everyone who saw the evidence and heard the gossip would say that was right and just.It’s always the lover.
If Shane hadn’t come to Dakota, would he have had any alibi? What had he done the night before last? Slept in his truck out in the desert?
Why Shelly? Why now? Thirty-two days after Jessica Klein’s murder, possibly part of a pattern, but whyher?
Why inside her house? The other girls had been abducted—possibly from the truck stop—killed somewhere else, and dumped in a mass grave. Shelly was killed in her home and left on her living room carpet. Dissimilarity.
But Dakota couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the same man, the same evil revisiting them. Why Shelly? Why Jessica? Why Libby? Why Amber? Were they all the worst kind of unlucky?
Why Shane?
Dakota moved through the little two-bedroom house Shane and Shelly had shared. He saw a lot of Shelly, very little Shane. A swath of the clothes in the master closet had been cleaned out, nothing but empty hangers on what must have been Shane’s side. On the floor were a few pairs of shoes Shelly hadn’t boxed up for Shane. Old, ratty hiking boots and a pair of golf shoes that looked brand-new, if coated in dust. He remembered Shane groaning, back when they were seventeen, about his dad taking him down to Lajitas to learn how to golf. There was nothing Shane wanted to do less than spend a weekend away, he’d said. Dakota imagined he’d meantaway from you.
Half the dresser was empty too. Shelly’s clothes were undisturbed, her bras, panties, shorts, and T-shirts all neatly folded. Their bed was made, a puffy sky-blue comforter dotted with tan and white wildflower silhouettes pulled up to matching pillows lying side by side. Dakota’s stomach knotted.
Shelly’s nightstand held a romance novel, a vibrator, a half-empty pack of birth control pills, Kleenex, and a cell phone charger. On top was a lamp and another picture of Shane and Shelly—laid facedown—of the couple in obviously happier times. Arms around each other’s waist, both of them smiling. Shelly looked radiant.
Shane’s nightstand was bare, swept clean. She’d forgotten to clear out the drawer, though. Inside, Dakota found a half-full box of condoms and a yellowing envelope shoved to the back, filled with photos. Dakota flipped through the pictures, expecting to see more of Shane and Shelly exploring Big Bend. Rafting, bicycling, climbing.
But no: they were old high school pictures, snapshots of moments lost to time. Football practice and lunch on the stadium steps. The football team hanging out in the parking lot, leaning up against a dozen different trucks. Shane and Dakota orbiting each other in every image.
Dakota slipped the envelope into his back pocket. Where would an envelope full of photos of him and Shane send the investigation? The wrong direction, that’s where.
He stood in the doorway to the bedroom, watching the forensic team work. They were sweeping the house, checking for shoe prints and fingerprints and fibers, searching every drawer and cupboard and cabinet, turning Shane and Shelly’s life together inside out and upside down. They’d already found the wedding magazines in the trash and Shelly’s engagement ring tossed in a coffee cup on the window ledge over the kitchen sink. A mountain of tissues, balled up like someone had been crying for a long time, on the kitchen table. A formal portrait of Shane in his chief deputy uniform had been taken down and turned to face the living room wall.
“What are you thinking?” Heath asked, sliding up beside Dakota.
“I’m thinkin’, if I didn’t know better, I’d be takin’ a real hard look at Shane.”
“You see why I had to ask him those questions this morning. If it wasn’t me…” He sighed.
“You came out here already.” It wasn’t a question.
