“At least if one of my clients claims God made him do it, I can plead insanity,” Molly countered.
Everyone in the social circle had been following the conversation like a tennis match. So far, the score was fairly even. However, Rainey counted on Molly to have the last word.
Undaunted, Nick said, “It’s politics. It’s not personal.” He offered his hand to Molly again. “Truce.”
“Oh, but it is personal, Nick. If I recall, and I do recall quite clearly, you were on the front lines protesting funding for the women’s center named after my mother with that asinine Jedidiah Lilly horde. What was it they were shouting? ‘God hates dykes,’ and my personal favorite, ‘Sarah Harris was a white-trash drug addict.’ I understand you were responsible for that little ditty.” Molly raised the Champaign glass in her hand in salute to Wendy. “You look ravishing, Miss King, but I’d work on the arm candy. This one won’t taste as good as he looks. As my mother used to say, sugar coated crap is still crap. Well, actually, she would have said, ‘shit’, but as I’ve left my white-trash roots behind, I thought I’d clean it up a bit.”
Most women would have delivered that line, followed by a quick turn of the heel and a sachet away, but not Molly. She sipped from her glass, handed it off to Rainey, and slipped her arm around Leslie’s waist.
“Let’s dance, honey,” Molly said, “They’re playing my song.”
Rainey started laughing when she realized the band was playing “Devil With The Blue Dress On.” It was indeed, Molly Kincaid’s theme song.
To Wendy’s credit, she turned to Nick. “Did you actually make that sign?”
Nick blushed red, losing some of his charming composure. “No, I didn’t make it. I just did the research on Sarah Harris and forwarded the information.”
“But you did work for Lilly?”
“Hey, Molly Kincaid’s mother’s history is public knowledge,” Nick argued.
Rainey narrowed her eyes at Nick. “I'm quite sure you have no idea what the real history involves in Molly's mother's case. That part of the story is not public knowledge.”
“If she doesn’t want it to be a political football, she should not have put the name on the building and then asked for public funding. It’s the reality of politics today.”
Katie had been uncharacteristically quiet, but that was about to change. The Sarah Harris Battered Women’s Shelter was her baby.
“No, Nick, the reality of politics today is that a few rich men have bought some elections, using lobbyists such as yourself for the dirty work. Playing political football with the lives of women and children is shameful. Claiming it’s God’s work is despicable. Come on, honey,” Katie said, grabbing Rainey’s free hand. “Let’s dance.”
Rainey tipped up Molly’s glass and finished the contents. She was being pulled toward the dance floor when she handed the glass to her sister.
She winked and said, “Choose wisely, young one. If you need a ride home, I got you covered.”
Wendy handed the glass to her date. “Catch you later, Nick. You look good in that tux, but my mother agrees with Molly’s—you can’t polish a turd.” That said, and in typical little sister form, she called out, “Hey Rainey, wait for me.”
#
Later that night.
The Bell-Meyers Residence
Chatham County, NC
Rainey stood outside the nursery doorway hugging Katie close, watching their children sleep. They were both a bit tipsy. Rainey was glad Molly had arranged a car for them. They dropped off her slightly more inebriated sister at her little home in a nearby neighborhood, at Wendy’s insistence. Her house was smack in the middle of the Triangle Terror’s hunting grounds, which made Rainey nervous. But Wendy was a grown woman, and she was determined to sleep in her bed. Rainey made the car wait while she checked all the doors and windows before leaving Wendy tucked in bed, a trashcan by her head and the alarm system on.
Now, she watched her children sleeping while holding the woman she loved, truly at peace for the moment.
Rainey whispered, “They always look like angels when they sleep.”
Katie tilted her head back to look up at Rainey. “Well, those little angels will be awake in a few hours, and if you want some of your slightly sloshed wife, we best get at it.”
Rainey began leading Katie toward the master suite without further delay.
She chuckled, while saying, “I love that our foreplay has become ‘we best get at it.’ ”
Katie spun away from her. “You want foreplay?” she asked playfully.
She then reached for the bottom of her long red dress, shimmied it over her head, threw it on the floor, and started dancing down the hall with her back turned to Rainey. She peeled the remaining layers from her body and tossed them over her shoulder. Rainey stood frozen in place. Katie disappeared into the bedroom and crooked a finger out the door, beckoning Rainey to come hither. A few seconds had passed, before Katie stuck her head out the door to see why her invitation was being ignored.
“Oh, hi Constance,” Katie said to Rainey’s mother, who was standing next to her daughter. “Sorry about that.”
“Oh no, nothing to be sorry about. I heard noise on the baby monitor. I just came to make sure they were still asleep. Sorry to interrupt. Good night.” Constance elbowed Rainey as she turned to leave, trying desperately not to burst out laughing. “If I looked like that, I’d dance naked in the hall for John too.”
Rainey didn’t speak or move until she heard the door close on the guest bedroom her mother occupied. Katie leaned on the bedroom doorframe giggling.
Rainey sighed heavily. “That’s going to take a while to forget. I may never have sex again.”
#
10:35 AM, Monday, February 23, 2015
Durham County Sherriff’s Office
Criminal Investigations Division
Interview Room
The soldier stood when she entered the room.
“Good afternoon, I’m Detective Robertson.”
“Good afternoon, ma’am. Staff Sergeant Russell Whitaker,” he said, shaking her extended hand.
Sizing up the young soldier, a living recruitment poster for the armed services, Sheila commented, “You’re mighty young for a Staff Sergeant.”
Russell Whitaker smiled. “I just received the promotion. The Army has an up or out policy. I like to keep the Army happy, ma’am.”
“Please, have a seat.” Sheila gestured to his chair. She took the one opposite and continued, “A career man, I take it—be all you can be.”
“Hooah, ma’am.”
“I understand you think something may have happened to your sister.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been to her house. Drove up from Bragg this morning. I got worried when Kaitlyn didn’t check in this weekend.”
“You and your sister, you stay in touch regularly?”
“Yes, ma’am. We have a standing appointment to check with each other on Friday nights. Our parents are abusive alcoholics. Me and sis, we fought our way out of that life. She’s four years younger, so when I was eighteen and joined the Army, I came back to get her after I got out of basic. I got custody of her from the state. While I was deployed she stayed with my Colonel’s family. She went through high school pretty much on her own.”
He became emotional but smiled through the welling tears.
“She made straight As. Got a four-year scholarship, graduated magna cum laude from State College last spring. She started graduate school and working at the research library on campus in the fall. She loves books and—” His voice cracked with emotion, saying, “Oh, God,” before he broke into sobs.
Russell Whitaker was scared and helpless. A big tough soldier, straight and tall, who was realizing that even with all his warrior skills, he could not protect his baby sister.
Sheila gave him the time he needed to recompose, before seeking more information.
“So, am I to understand your sister missed a standing check in time on Friday?”
Russell’s breathing calmed. He wiped the tears from his cheeks, before visibly resuming a soldier’s posture, eyes forward.
“Yes, ma’am, but that was prearranged. Kaitlyn had dinner plans with colleagues after work, before attending a lecture she had been looking forward to Friday evening. We agreed to speak on Saturday morning. She did not respond to my calls, texts, or emails. That is very out of character, ma’am.”
Sheila smiled, trying to ease the impact of the next few questions.
“Has Kaitlyn ever ignored your communications before? Maybe you sometimes disagreed. Is she a bit rebellious, a little resentful of having to check in with her big brother? Does she have a boyfriend?”
“I understand why you are asking these questions ma’am, but if you will permit me to tell you what I discovered at her home, I think we might be able to speed the process up a bit.”
Sheila sat back in her chair. A seasoned investigator, she could read people and knew when to be quiet and listen. This young man was bursting to have his story heard.
“Okay, Staff Sergeant, tell me why I should be looking for your sister.”
“When Kaitlyn didn’t respond to anything by Sunday morning, I went to my CO, explained the situation, and caught the next transport back to Carolina. I can’t tell you where I was unless you get some clearance from someone above my pay grade.”
“That probably will not be necessary, but why didn’t you just call the police and ask for a welfare check.”
“I did ma’am. They went by the house. Her car is still there. They found a note taped to the inside of the front storm door. It’s addressed to someone I don’t know, but it says Kaitlyn was sorry she missed them and would see them soon. She wouldn’t do that ma’am—just leave without telling me. I knew something was off.”
“Not to mention, who leaves notes on doors these days? You say Kaitlyn texts and emails, has a phone—Do you have this note?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Russell reached into his chest pocket, but before he handed over the note enclosed in a plastic bag, he finished his story. “When I got to her house, I used my key to get in. The minute I walked in, I knew something was wrong. Her purse and keys were on the table by the door. I found her phone on the bedside table in her bedroom, resting on top of the program from the lecture Friday night. It looked like she came home, went to bed, and then just vanished into thin air. I came straight down here to report her missing.”
He handed over the bag.
Sheila read the handwritten note through the bag. She hoped the gasp that left her throat had not been too noticeable, but when she looked up to see the expression on the Staff Sergeant’s face, she knew he heard it.
The note read:
Rainey,
Sorry, I missed you. See you soon.
Kaitlyn
#
A few minutes later…
The Bell-Meyers Residence
Chatham County, NC
“No, I don’t know her. I’ve never heard that name to my knowledge,” Rainey said into the phone, one whimpering child on her hip and two all out bawlers wrapped around each knee.
“Then it’s him, toying with you—us.”
“Ya’ think, Sheila?” The sarcasm indicated the mood she was in.
“Don’t be a smartass. Why are those babies crying like that?”
“Because they picked up a stomach virus at the women’s center day care and have been spewing from both ends since two-thirty this morning. I’m not sick, but I’ve spewed a few times myself from the smell. I may not survive this.”
“Oh my,” Sheila said. “Where’s Katie?”
“Katie and her mom are cleaning the nursery and I’m really glad I am not involved. This is— Oh, crap— Hey, I’m going to have to call you back. No, no, no, don’t puke in the vent. Hey, hey, hey, oh god—”
2:00 PM, Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Durham Police Academy
Durham, NC
Just over one hundred law enforcement officers representing four North Carolina counties—Wake, Chatham, Orange, and Durham—squeezed into the large conference room. There to hear what the multi-jurisdictional task force had to say concerning a two-year escalating crime spree in the area, the air was thick with conjecture. As she made her way to the front of the room with Detective Robertson, Rainey heard snippets of the speculation.
“This guy is a psycho. No doubt about it.”
“Breaking into houses to jack off in some woman’s underwear. This guy is a freak.”
“Some of the victims were just barely teenagers. He’s all over the map.”
“He did some sick shit, man. Look at those pictures. Jesus.”
“I don’t care how good this guy is at hiding his tracks, he’ll be caught and all this time we spent on profiling mumbo-jumbo will have meant diddly-squat.”
“Maybe these crimes aren’t related at all. Maybe it’s two guys, could be three.”
Rainey paused at the front row and leaned against the wall, as Sheila moved toward the podium.
A male voice to her right said, “What’s her name? That profiler? Cloudy? Stormy? Something like that, anyway, I heard she has a good looking wi— uh, girlfri, uh—the woman she lives with is smokin’ hot.”
A female voice chastised him. “You can say wife, Jack. Join us in the twenty-first century.”
A hushed and deeper male voice commented, “She ain’t so bad herself. She’s standing right behind you.”
Equipped with a body-mic for her coming presentation, Rainey fought the urge to comment. Pretending unawareness she kept her eyes focused on Sheila. Seated behind the podium, a semicircle of brass-ornamented chests waited. Giving a respectful nod to all the officers outranking her, Sheila stepped up to the microphone.
“Good afternoon, everyone.”
The greeting silenced the murmuring room.
“Thank you for coming. I am Detective Sheila Robertson with the Durham County Sheriff’s Office Criminal Investigation Division. I will be serving as the spokesperson for the task force today. Behind me are…”
Rainey stopped listening to the obligatory salutes to the brass. She didn’t care which dignitaries were in the room. The man they were looking for was not among them, or she didn’t think he was, but anything was possible with an offender like this. Her eyes trailed over the task force evidence boards. Crowded with pictures and maps, they represented the sum of the known facts concerning the UNSUB or “Triangle Terror.”