Page 11 of 1st Shock
"Got it!" Charlie says. "Braddock Road."
She drops the report and charges toward me. "Right here." She jabs at the approximate location. "Exit 54A or B off the Beltway, depending on if you want East or West."
I draw the fourth and final intersecting line then step back to view my work. Charlie does the same, the two of us side by side, staring at my makeshift drawing of the Capital Beltway.
"My God," Charlie says.
"Young females. Blonde. Strangled."
"Found on the ring of the Beltway." Charlie spins to face me. She’s as pale as the whiteboard. "Serial killer."
6
Charlie
My damn watch is dead again.
Impatiently, I tap the dial, the hand stopped at five thirty-five AM. Two hours ago, before I even put the bloody thing on. I didn’t notice, and now that I’m at my desk, I’m annoyed at my own incompetence.
I go through watch batteries like I do cups of coffee— too many, too often. My body seems to absorb the tiny storage cell’s energy, choking off time. Or maybe, it’s simply the force of mind. Like a Jedi, I need time to slow down or stop it long enough for me to catch up.
There will be no catching up today. I spent several hours last night researching our serial killer and filling out paperwork to try and get files on all the cold cases in the past two years that fit the parameters of Emily and Avery. I couldn’t have slept anyway, my stomach churning like white water rapids. There’s someone I know who could be the killer. Someone I testified before a jury about and helped put in prison nearly four years ago. He was into young, college-age girls, and took out his dysfunction on several before he was caught.
Mickey Wilson’s attorney tried to get him off, saying he was not mentally competent to stand trial and needed psychological help. Don’t all killers need psychological help? I was the forensic psychologist the prosecution called on to evaluate Wilson, and not only did I find him competent to stand trial, I knew he’d killed more than the three women they were charging him with.
The pattern Meg and I discovered could be a coincidence. That’s why I need to find the cold cases in the last two years that fit. The more the better in order to analyze and establish with certainty that we have a serial killer.
While I’m waiting—it could be days or weeks before those files start trickling in—I’m following the one lead I have, Mickey.
I’m heading to Hazelton Penitentiary in West Virginia, a high-security United States federal prison for male inmates. A long drive, but one I hope proves fruitful.
I haven’t told Meg because she’ll want to go with me, and that place will give her nightmares for months. I’ve only been one other time and it took weeks to feel like I had the horrible stench washed off my skin. The air is filled with anger, hatred, and violence. A fog hangs over the area, dispirited, hopeless.
I also don’t want to get her hopes up. The possibility the killer is already present is slim. The timeline for the deaths and when Wilson was arrested may rule out his involvement. However, we don’t have hard and fast dates on the victims, so I already have hope. From what I remember of Wilson, he likes to talk, likes to brag. He’s already in prison and I can dangle an imaginary carrot in front of him, make him believe if he tells me something of value, I can get him perks like cigarettes, or an extra hour in the exercise yard.
The watch goes in my desk drawer and I mentally prepare for the trip. There’s more than Wilson in there because of my testimony. The warden is a brash fellow and not one of my biggest fans, but he has granted me a fifteen minute interview. It could make or break my day. Hopefully, I can use my Jedi mind trick and maximize that time.
I grab my coffee and briefcase, ready to head out before Meg arrives. I leave a note on her art table about the files I’ve requested and the excuse of Juanita’s search for her biological father as the reason for my absence from today. Odds are, she’ll text before I’m on the freeway.
Once I’m at the prison, I’ll have to notify JJ. He’ll be pissed I didn’t get his okay beforehand. All part of the plan to make sure he doesn’t bum a ride as well. The last thing I need is to be in the car with him for a three and a half hour trip each way.
I almost make it out the back door unseen. I’m contemplating stopping at home to grab another watch when I hear Meg’s keys in the lock. “Shit,” I say under my breath, making a quick turnabout and nearly spilling my coffee as I sprint down the hall toward the front. My new heels are not easy to run in and I nearly trip.
She’ll ask too many questions; demand answers I don’t want to give. As I punch the security button and try to unlock the door quickly, the strap of my briefcase slides off my shoulder. It whacks the plant sitting just inside the door, nearly toppling it. I snatch the plant and juggle a coffee cup, another creative curse escaping my lips.
“Charlie?” Meg’s voice rings out down the hallway. “Are you okay?”
Of course she knows it’s me. She saw my car in the back parking lot. Escape is futile.
“Fine,” I reply. Time is definitely not on my side today. “Just checking the security alarm.”
I check it on a regular basis, so this won’t raise suspicions. The plant looks a little lopsided and there’s a small bit of dirt on the floor to clean, but I’m not wearing my coffee, so there’s that.
“Are you dodging me?” I turn to find her behind me holding my note. She eyes my briefcase and travel mug.
“What? Of course not.” I point toward the note. “I’m heading to West Virginia about a lead.”
It’s not a lie, exactly, leaving out the specifics of the trip. I watch her face, waiting to see if she believes this is about Miss Jones.
