Shattered by Death (A Jo Oliver Thriller Book 2) (10 page)

Mitch’s steps smacked down the hallway toward the bullpen. The quiet in my office was far too loud for comfort, but nowhere near enough to drown out the roaring in my head. Steel rods shot up from my stomach, jamming my throat. I fought against the memories. Distorted thoughts slammed around me like an iron tomb.
First Del, now Nick
?

Would I ever be compelling enough for anyone to stay by my side forever? Would I always be that woman—the one men walked away from? How could I be so easily replaced?

I dragged myself over to shut the door and locked it for good measure. A darkness grew around me. Every fiber of my body was hardening cement. My arms and legs buzzed as they grew heavier, leaving me so weighted down that the walk over to the leather sofa against the wall felt like trudging through quicksand. I plopped down hard.

Nothing mattered. All I craved was ‘out.’ Of this mess. Maybe out of more. Or maybe a drink. Anything to fill the great nothingness I swam through every day since Del left me… twice. I was standing on the edge of a slippery cavern floor, hot lava from a lake of sulfur gurgling just off shore. I struggled in my darkness for a moment, and then warmth like a blanket eased around me. Silk-wrapped words rolled through my mind, gilding a path, leading me into the light.

“
I will allure her, and bring her into the wilderness, and speak tenderly to her… And in that day, declares the LORD, you will call me ‘My Husband’.
”
Gino’s pastor had been preaching out of a little book called Hosea lately—about God’s intimate love for us. God used the prophet and his less-than-virtuous wife, Gomer, to demonstrate the depth of His love for us, for me, even when we’re at our worst.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.
Lord, help me to see my life through Your eyes. Help me to look to You first, to take comfort in You. To remember that You love me more than any earthly husband ever could.

Maybe I wasn’t ready to return to work after all. Conflicting beliefs and images rolled around in my psyche. The scene I most regretted tumbled back to mind. My naiveté knew no bounds.

Del and I, in bed. Days before he left. Me, in his arms, wrapped up in the soft bliss of willful ignorance.

“Del?” I had turned my head to search for his eyes in the dark.

“Hmm?” He tightened his hold.

“I’m so glad we have each other.” I nestled my head into his chest and relaxed.

“Mmhm.” He rested his chin on my head.

“I heard rough stories tonight—saw so many sad faces. Being here with you makes me feel sad for the many people going it alone. It’s such a luxury to wake up in your arms, to know you’re always here for me.”

I tasted despair and relief at the same time as we lay there in the dark. His random tenderness confused me. Nights like that made me wonder if I’d made up the rest. The daily agonies and indignities faded, and I clung to the warmth offered, willing myself to believe it could last. This time.

“And I always will be.” He kissed me on the head, and I fell asleep in his arms within minutes.

Less than a week later, he left me for another woman. How was I supposed to come back from that?

I slid off the sofa and sank to my knees, my head slumping onto my chest.
Why do you even try?
Dry eyes stared long moments into nothingness. Since my department-issued Glock was still in the station’s safe, my personal, privately-owned handgun was in my shoulder harness. I pulled it out and placed it on the floor in front of me.

Someone else’s voice wrapped itself around me like a warm cloth on my icy forehead.

Call Him husband? Puleeze! You’ll never have another man wanting you for a wife. You don’t deserve that kind of happiness. And what’s the point of going on if you have to go it alone? Because you do.

Have. To. Go. It. Alone.

And why not? Do. It. Who’s gonna miss you? Even Sam will be better off with anyone but you for a mother. One little bullet. One little bullet standing between you and sweet relief. One little bullet to the head. Just think how warm the barrel will feel up against your temple. A quick squeeze of the finger, and it’ll all be over.

I whispered a frantic prayer, “I need You, God. You’ve got to swoop down and clear my head of these lies. I need You to fortify my heart. Lead me through this moment into Your light. Forgive me for exercising my keen ability to pull things down into the mire in record time.”

Another voice rang out, clear and strong:
Resist the devil, and he will flee.

I chose resistance and kept up my desperate prayer.
“Lord——I need You to get me through another day. Another hour. Another minute. Another investigation. There’s too much riding on this for me to break down now.”

I stood and moved to the windows, resting my forehead against the glass. Two young boys wearing bright blue and red windbreakers rode small would-be dirt bikes in tight figure-eights in the parking lot below. They’d pulled a wheel and a plank between two empty parking spots.

Blue Windbreaker Boy broke from the pattern and pedaled a large, fast circle around his cache. My heart beat faster as he stood up on the pedals, turned, and headed as fast as he could into the makeshift jump. The wobbling front tire gave him away—he wasn’t going to make it. What he lacked in strength and speed, he made up for with his fierce battle cry. He was still yelling as he slammed into the board and hurtled head over heels across his handlebars.

I gasped, nearly turning away to run outside and help him, but his yowls turned into glee so fast it lifted my heart, and I started laughing too. His friend rushed over and fell on the ground beside him. He put his arm around him, and both sets of skinny shoulders shook with a kindred laughter. They pulled off their helmets and squealed even louder together.

I was smiling so hard my face hurt, and I turned around, refreshed.

My gun was on the floor where I’d left it. I snapped it back into the shoulder holster. All the power of heaven rejoiced when I bowed my head to thank the God who’d just answered a prayer I didn’t know I needed: Insight into what needed to happen next to jumpstart this investigation flooded through me. I buttoned up my blazer, fluffed my hair with my fingers, and headed toward my waiting crew, humming.

Let’s get this party started.

Heads swiveled and hushed tones filled the room before I started barking orders to the reluctant detectives. Garrett was the only one who met my gaze. For a third generation cop, he’d broken from family tradition and embraced both technology and the idea of female authority figures. Normally a friendly face in the crowd, his blue eyes held little warmth for me today. Friend or foe? Who knew? I turned my attention to him anyway.

“So give me the run down, Garrett. Top to bottom, and be quick about it.” I nodded at him.

Seven detectives remained in the bullpen. Ralphie Contron and Dick Trent stood in the back, whispering. Where was Schlichting? The three stooges were insufferable, and inseparable. I would be grateful for the reprieve. And a tad suspicious of the timing of his absence.
He just happens to go missing the minute a DB shows up? And he has access to the station’s photo paper, and he hates me. And he’s one of just six who were at both crime scenes.
I tucked that thought away and focused on the now.

The remaining dynamic duo was annoying enough. They’d both been passed over for promotions three times. Bitterness hung in the air between them. Garrett cleared his throat and cast a nervous glance to the back of the room where they stood.

“We know Derrick Deter was a perp of the worst kind. Convicted sex offender for a veritable cornucopia of child offenses. Brought in for questioning for countless other cases but was never charged. He did time in four joints in three different states over a period of fifteen years. Got paroled early for good behavior each time. Picked up by the same woman at each release. Turned out to be his mother. Nobody’s missing him—except her. Maybe.” Garrett flipped on an LCD projector.

“So, how’d it happen? How’d he get popped and beaten to death in broad daylight and no one hears or sees a thing? This ain’t exactly Detroit.” Impatience laced my voice. Not the first time. Probably not the last either. Garrett didn’t seem to mind.

“We think he was stalking another group of kids. Following the same pattern. This equipment was found in his bag at the scene.” Garrett clicked the remote through multiple images of high-end photography equipment. A New Orleans style Mardi Gras mask lay on the table next to one of the cameras.

“Wait. Back up. What’s the deal with the mask?”
It’s probably nothing. But everything matters, right?

“It was just there, with his prints all over it, just like the rest of the stuff. And in case that’s not enough for you, we’ve got this.” He clicked again and scrolled through a dozen screens showing close up shots of a tow-headed boy with strong features and sparkling blue eyes. And they were still sparkling. Thank God.

“We think he’d zeroed in on his next victim.” Garrett lowered his voice and paused for effect. “But did he know somebody had zeroed in on him?”

Contron spoke up from the back, his right knee cocked at an angle, leaning against the wall with folded arms. “That’s the million-dollar question. Who would’ve known he was even in the area?”

“He was a known offender. Anyone with time and inclination can get online and look for updates to the registry in their neighborhood. That’s not unusual.” Garrett’s tone was defensive. He glared at Contron.

“Time, inclination, and a nasty little sledgehammer thing, though? That’s seems pretty exclusive. Should narrow your list down quite a bit. And, going after a perp like that… feels female, doesn’t it? Doesn’t this feel like another female killer to you?” Contron stared straight at me.

“Got any other feelings you’d like to discuss, detective? Maybe like a little resentment? Like maybe you refuse to believe your Chief is innocent and back here leading your recalcitrant carcass? You got anything else you want to throw on the table?” I straightened up, staring right back at him as I spoke.

He stared daggers back at me but kept his peace.
Coward
.

“No? Good. Then how ‘bout you set aside your dislike of me long enough to focus on the real killer here?” I raised my voice for emphasis, enjoying the red flush spreading across his forehead.

“And any of the rest of you wanting to take issue with my leadership are welcome to reread the report detailing my exact whereabouts during the past several days—and specifically during the double murder of my husband and his girlfriend.” Heat vaulted up my spine.
Del, sticking it to me from the grave? Forcing me to give up the anonymity of my shelter women to remain free to catch his killer? Get with the program, Josie. Stay in the game.

“For those of you who don’t happen to watch TV, you should go online. Where you’d catch the fact that there are video tapes on file with the state’s attorney, proving my exact whereabouts the entire time the murders were being committed. Any questions?”

Ralphie’s eyes sprang open, and he stumbled off the wall and into Dick Trent. The clatter broke the tension in the room, and I smiled while my ironclad alibi rang loudly through the heads of every detective in the room. Their body language relaxed, and they looked up at me expectantly, almost in unison.

Finally.
They wouldn’t have fallen in line so fast had Schlichting been present. Thank You, God, for small favors.

“So, who else would’ve known about Deter?” The atmosphere had changed. Energy flowed throughout the room, and it was time to take full advantage of it.

“His victims. Any neighborhood watch types. Vigilantes. Disgruntled former co-workers and family members maybe. Creep like that mighta had enemies anywhere. Not to mention social and local services.” Trent slinked to his desk in three strides and flipped open his laptop. I nodded my approval. He was following a good line of thinking.

“And if he had been hooked up to local services, that opens a whole new list of people who may have had access to his records, right?” Something was niggling at my subconscious.

“Right.” Trent kept his eyes buried in the data before him. “Such as county health department and free clinic services. Think of the resources wasted on that guy while he was alive. Not to mention what we’re still putting in with him six feet under. Now who’s the crazy one?” He grunted and shook his head.

“Wait a minute. Crazy, huh?”
Crazy like a fox.
“Search under psych and social, and see who he might have been checking in with. Was he seeing anybody regularly? Maybe we can get a warrant to peek at some of his court-ordered mental health providers’ notes?” A dim light turned on somewhere deep inside my mind.

“Whoa—that’s weird.” Trent looked up, wrinkling his nose.

“What? You dig up who he was seeing?” His drama was getting on my nerves.

“Yeah.” His eyes met mine.

“And?”

“And I… I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Maybe we can help.” My eyes rolled before I could stop them. If he didn’t start talking soon, I would reach out and slap him across the face to jumpstart his brain. “Maybe you could do us the supreme favor of using your words.” I wasn’t even trying to stem the tide of sarcasm flowing through each syllable.

“He
was
seeing someone regularly. Court assigned. Since his last incarceration ending in early release nineteen months ago.” He was typing as he talked.

“Yeah, nothing unusual so far. Keep reading. And see who else might’ve been seeing the same shrink at or around his scheduled appointments. I know it’s a long shot, but heck, you never know. We might get lucky. Stranger things have happened.” I shoved a hand into my uniform pocket. Maybe the Fun Size candy bar I’d placed in it before taking it to the dry cleaner would still be there. Nope.

Trent had paled noticeably. He’d stopped typing and was focusing his attention on a printer sputtering to life along the back of the room. The rest of the guys had stopped talking and were looking our way.

“I take it you found something?”

He nodded, looking over at the row of printers in the back of the room and back to me before resting his eyes on the floor. I walked over to the printer and picked up the paper just before it fluttered to the ground.

The print was unnaturally small. It took me a moment to decipher the times, dates, numbers, and codes. When I did, I read it again. And again. The third time through, the growing chill in my gut froze to a glacier, and the soft spot under my chin ached like it always did just before I puked.

Derrick Deter had indeed received court-ordered treatment the last time he’d been through the system. Interestingly enough, his treatment came from the capable hands of Doctor Kira Stoklavich. Weekly. Just as you’d expect.

Exactly one hour and fifty minutes after my own weekly session.

The dim light in the far reaches of my mind snapped off.