Page 44 of 1st Shock
Just for spite, I hold up my middle finger, almost hoping,daringhim to come at me while I'm alone. He likes to use the back, so when I return to my office, I sweat and grunt and shove my desk out into the hallway facing the back exit. My gun is fully loaded, and I flip the safety off, setting it on the desk. I sit back, sipping my coffee.Come on, you bastard. Come and get me.
Rain begins to fall outside, and minutes go by. No one pulls into the driveway, no one sneaks by the windows, no one shows up on any of my security cameras. I pick up the transcript and start reading.
I skip to the testimonies given by Mickey's stepsiblings. There were two sisters and a brother. The younger sister, Dixie, provided the majority of testimony, stating her biological brother, Billy Ray, protected her and the older girl, Bonnie. According to her, Mickey tormented them, stole their dolls and did unspeakable things to them. He threatened them, and there were times when they were afraid to go to sleep since he'd vowed on more than one occasion to kill them while they slept.
Nice.
Billy Ray, at the ripe age of thirteen, took on Mickey more than once, the two of them ending up in brawls that scared the sisters. It appears Billy Ray got the crap beat out of him more than once, as evidenced by several emergency room visits presented in court.
When I evaluated Mickey, we talked about his family, but glossed over these bits of information. In his version, he was always the victim.
I flip through stacks of files, pulling out Devante's interview notes. Skimming the pages for Billy Ray's name, I only find him mentioned a couple times in passing, things Mickey claimed were unfair, where Billy Ray got special treatment. Apparently Mickey didn't go into the real details about his younger stepbrother to Devante either. A bully never likes someone who will stand up to them.
I read more of Dixie's testimony. Billy Ray took to carrying a pocketknife, even though Mickey claimed to not be afraid of him. Dozens of times, as stated by Dixie, Billy Ray came to the sisters' rescue. There were times he protected them from Mickey's mother as well, who doled out harsh beatings and other disciplines to humiliate them if they upset her.
By the time of Mickey's trial, his mother was dead, and his stepfather had suffered a stroke, leaving him unable to testify. Bonnie had married and moved to Washington State, to which she returned immediately after her turn on the stand. So much for a family reunion.
After graduating high school, Dixie attended night school in Alexandria while working as a retail clerk at Walmart. At the trial, she claimed to have trouble sleeping due to constant nightmares.
Billy Ray tried community college, then technical school. By the time his stepbrother was on trial as a serial killer, he’d worked half a dozen jobs, from mechanic to construction worker.
Where were they now?
I do an internet search on Dixie first. Google doesn't offer much outside a couple addresses where she and the others lived as kids. I browse the most popular social media platforms, but she is absent.
I search for Bonnie and find her still residing in Washington State. By the look of her Facebook profile, she’s added two kids, a dog, and a horse to her family. In her picture, she looks happy. I hope she is.
Billy Ray is like Dixie—almost nonexistent in general searches and social media sites.
I log into my background check account and start plugging in names. Dixie is still in Arlington and working for Walmart, but she's been married and divorced. She has a couple speeding tickets, nothing of interest. I write down her number to give her a call later. It might not go well, depending on how much she's followed the news, but I have to try. Even though Mickey's name hasn’t come up yet in the press releases, the whole situation is bound to resurrect bad memories for her.
Billy Ray's check shows he moved to the Smoky Mountains after the trial. He went off-grid after that, not so much as a rental agreement or a voter registration card showing up in the database. A part of me wonders why; the other part understands. What those kids endured at Mickey's hands—and then, as young adults, to realize he’d become a serial killer? All of them need psychological help. No wonder Dixie continued to have nightmares as an adult.
The shadows have grown deep around me, the storm outside cutting off sunlight. I get up and stretch, wondering how much longer I'll be here by myself. My fingers itch to text Meg, but she’d probably ignore me. Or tell me to quit hovering. She's probably gone somewhere for lunch. My mind plays out a scenario while thinking about Bonnie, Dixie, and Billy Ray. What would I have done in that situation to protect Meg? To protect myself?
I shudder and shove my desk back into the office. I haven't heard from Matt and text him. No answer, so I assume he's driving. I sigh, tossing the cell on the desk.
I need to do something, not just sit here and keep reading reports, but there is literally nothing I can do. I think about going to the shooting range or gym, but neither holds appeal. A niggling in the back of my brain tells me I've missed something. The clues are all here in front of me, but I can't see them clearly.
I go to the conference room, set up a fresh murder board, and start laying out a timeline with the details of Mickey's life on top, then our current serial killer running parallel below his.
I lose track of time, and the chiming of the back door opening makes me nearly jump out of my skin. Shit. I left my gun on my desk.
It's Matt, though, not the killer.
"Whoa," he says, stopping in the doorway and scanning the lines dotted with pictures, dates, and my scribbled notes. I've used different colored markers and threads to link certain things together. Meg has her form of art, I have mine. "That's impressive."
I cap one of the dry erase markers and toss it on the table. "I take it you didn't find anything at Devante's?" He would've called if he had, but I can still hope.
"He's clean. I even checked for loose floorboards and secret panels. I couldn't find anything that suggests he even watches crime shows, much less kills people."
"Then what is his fascination with Mickey? Why pick him to do a doctorate thesis on?"
"A lot of people are fascinated with serial killers. It doesn't mean they want to be one."
I contemplate picking up the marker and throwing it at him. Not because he's being snarky, but because I'm so frustrated. "Damn it."
He drags out a chair and slouches into it, kicking his feet up on another while motioning at my board. "Let's talk it out. Walk me through what you've got."
