Page 2 of 4th Silence
The camera pans out to the three-story brick home behind the tall gates, conservatively decorated for the season, as a group bundled in coats and scarves sings the carol in soft voices. A memorial has been created on the lawn with candles, teddy bears, and Christmas wreaths. Folks have tied cards and handmade signs to the iron gates.
A school picture of the girl appears on the screen. Her smile shows a missing tooth. I swallow hard.
Denise Brown’s voice continues over the photo. “On this anniversary of Tiffany’s death, many in the community are asking law enforcement to reopen the case to expose the killer and finally find justice for the poor little girl.”
Next, she interviews my mother. Helen Schock, her natural silver-streaked hair tucked under a knit cap, stares down the camera with eyes that could cut glass. As lead investigator for the Crime Desk of the D.C. Investigative Journal—a tabloid that keeps the local cold case hunters stirred up—Mom’s breath frosts the air, and her eyes snap with determination. Brown introduces her to the viewers, then asks about the Silent Night case and why she and the others are holding a vigil outside the family’s home.
“What happened to that little girl is unacceptable.” Her tone is no-nonsense. I heard it routinely during my childhood. Still do today. “She didn’t even get to wake up on Christmas morning with her family. Can you imagine dying so young? Not just dying—she was killed! On Christmas Eve, surrounded by family and friends.” She blinks away tears. “I’ve learned that there is new DNA evidence and details about that party that law enforcement refuses to reexamine. Someone who attended it knows what happened.” She glares into the camera, pointing a finger at the viewers. “Citizens Solving Cold Cases will solve this case once and for all.”
I cringe. JJ will be calling before I can finish my coffee, insisting I rein her in.
Mom started Citizens Solving Cold Cases a few years ago. It went defunct, but she’s revived it. She’s relentless about recruiting new members and utilizing them to delve into the thousands of unsolved cases in the D.C. area.
I wish her luck.
Stewing, I pour two cups of coffee and retrieve a couple protein bars from my bag. This will take patience and damage control. Patience with my mother, damage control with JJ. Is Mom correct, though? Is there new DNA evidence? Has the family asked to reopen the case based on it? Has JJ and his team refused?
At the door of Meg’s office, the video and questions take a back seat. My sister sits in the middle of the floor, files scattered around her, two of her sketchbooks open and filled with drawings and notes. “The answer is here,” she says without preamble. “I have to find it.”
Stepping past a stack, I hand her the coffee and one of the bars. “Who are you zeroed in on now?”
“Darcy.” She sets my offerings aside. “Her remains were found two miles from Galishea’s. The time of death places them within a few months of each other. Could be the same killer.”
“I’ll help you go through the files after the meeting.” I don’t have time to do it, but I’ll make it at some point today. I have the Costnick trial across town this afternoon. The defense has hired me as an expert witness for their client, and I’ll have to leave early to ensure I arrive promptly.
“What meeting?” Meg asks without looking up.
“It’s Monday.”
Her gaze meets mine, eyes glassy from lack of sleep. “So?”
“Our Monday morning meeting, Meg?”
The lightbulb goes off, and she releases a pent-up huff that blows a piece of her hair back from her forehead. “Sorry. I just got…”
The words trail off, as does her attention.
“Did you sleep at all last night?”
She takes a sip and shakes her head. “I can’t.”
“Why don’t you take some of those gummy bears Jerome has? Won’t they put you to sleep?”
Her boyfriend deals weed, but he has a legit medical card now, too. She snorts. “He’s the problem.”
My hackles rise automatically. If he’s done something to upset her… “How so?”
She presses her lips together. Her focus drifts to the chaotic piles on the floor, then to the bold collection of paintings on her walls. “He asked me to”—her hand shakes enough to spill the coffee, and she jumps up, dripping hot liquid onto her skirt and the sketchbooks—“do something ridiculous.”
I take the cup so she can grab a napkin and wipe the liquid off the files. My mind churns with various scenarios. “Ridiculous, how? Like, kinky ridiculous?”
“He didn’t so much ask me as just…hinted at it.”
“The suspense is killing me. Spit it out.”
She brushes past me, heading for the kitchen. The office landline out front begins to ring. As I follow, she says over her shoulder, “Should you get that?”
I ignore her attempt to distract me. “Meg.” Jeez, I sound like Mom.
