Page 50 of 1st Shock
Smart man.
We spend a few more minutes trying to make sure Billy Ray isn’t playing possum. Eventually, we’re at the door. I look at JJ and he shrugs.
We didn't come all this way to turn around and head back to D.C. without getting something for our troubles.
I knock loudly and step back. "Billy Ray? My name is Charlize Schock and I'm looking into a copycat killer I believe is using Mickey Wilson as his mentor. I know you don't want to talk about him or what he did to your sisters, but young women are dying because of this guy. If you could answer a few questions, give me five minutes, it could save lives."
Nothing. The rain begins to fall harder. JJ motions me off the porch, signals he's going to walk around the house, peek into windows.
I keep talking, practically begging Billy Ray to help us. Finally, I stop wasting my breath. He's not here.
Dammit all to hell.
JJ finishes walking around. He shakes his head at my questioning gaze when he emerges on my left. "Could be he went to town, or maybe he hasn't been here in a long time. What do you want to do, Charlie? Wait and see if he comes home?"
I bite the inside of my bottom lip, tapping my foot on the ground and cursing silently. My hair is already soaked, and rivulets of water run down my neck, under the collar of my jacket. I stomp up the front steps once more and grab the doorknob, jiggling it. It's locked. No surprise.
I step back and give it a hard kick. The wood groans slightly, but the lock doesn't give.
"What the hell are you doing?" JJ asks.
I motion at him to come up. "Help me kick this door open."
"You want a U.S. district attorney to break into a guy's house with no provocation?"
I hate breaking the law, but on the other hand, innocent women are dying, and I have to stop the man killing them. "I'm feeling sick, really sick, probably picked up something in the woods and I could die. You don't know what's wrong with me, and I can't make it back to the rental car. You need to get me inside, warm me up, make me tea or...something."
A muscle in JJ's jaw works. He's trying not to smile as he curses under his breath. "What do you think you're going to find in there?"
"A notepad and pen and leave this guy a message. One way or another, I'm going to talk to him. We can drive back to town and I'll find a hotel. You head back to D.C., but I'll stay here and see if I can meet him face-to-face and get something—anything—that’ll help us."
The tingle in my gut is working overtime. JJ's phone rings, the soft buzzing foreign in the noise of this forested area. I'm shocked he has service at all. He pulls it out, stalling me and my break-in, to answer. I walk to the nearest window and try to peek in, but the closed curtains mostly block the view of what lies inside. I cup my hands around my eyes and stare harder. A table under the window. A rifle lies on it, three hunting knives, steel gleaming even in the shadows, on newspaper next to it.
"Yeah...when was that?" JJ's tone makes me turn to him. The hair on the back of my neck stands up at the look on his face. "You're sure? Okay, thanks."
He disconnects and pockets the phone. Walks up onto the porch to the front door.
Something has changed—he's ready to bust it down.
"What is it?" I ask. "Who was that?"
"I asked the warden to look up all the times Billy Ray, or the sisters, visited Mickey."
"And?"
He wiggles his fingers at me. "Give me your gun."
I hand it to him, and he points it at the spot where the lock is. "Billy Ray visited Mickey in prison three days ago."
The tickle turns into a full blown cramp. "Holy shit," I say. "Do you think...? There are three knives on the table in there."
Probable cause. We don't want our search thrown out of court just in case.
He doesn't say anything, and I jump back and cover my ears as JJ fires at the door.
Inside, rain drips off the sleeves of my jacket and I pull up short only a few steps in. A wall covered in newspaper clippings and photos grabs my attention, horror slamming into me. They’re from Mickey's trial, but it's the photos that make me gag and run back outside to vomit in the yard.
The majority of serial killers like to kill close to home. In this case, it appears ours prefers to do so near hischildhoodhome.
