The Other Side of Ice

Chapter 11

There she is, he hummed. He saw her from the sidelines. Her pale face glowed under the dark lighting. A natural magnet for the spotlight.

He watched her. Her eyes dazzling in aww. Her smile widening with delight. Her body leaning forward; leaning into the emotions.

He watched her. Rising from her seat and moving amid the crowd as they hustled to their cars. People shuffled in tight groups in the parking lot. Packing into small cars and honking their way into traffic. Parents lassoed their kids with threats or treats. Everyone was in a hurry to leave before traffic got bad, seemingly unaware that they were the traffic.

Outside, the air was cool and crisp. He could see his breath escape in clouds. But his eyes did not leave her. She walked arm in arm with another woman whose eyes were as dark as twilight and skin as delectable as chocolate. They were laughing. Hers was an airy chuckle.

“It was magical, wasn’t it?” he heard her say. Her voice was buoyant and captivating. The darker woman laughed in agreement. On the street, she used her scarf like a flag and waved into the street. A yellow taxi screeched to a stop.

“How do you do that?” her friend asked.

“Just lucky, I guess,” she shrugged. It was so nonchalant and free. She hugged her friend before opening the car door. “1011 West Randolph Street. Bye!” She waved one last time before rolling up her window and letting the taxi whisk her away.

It didn’t take him long to find the house. It wasn’t his first time hunting these streets. The memory played freshly in his mind as he counted the houses.

995. Short. Blonde. Face as pale as bleach. But the freckles. Oh, the freckles.

999. An apartment, one street over. Third floor.

1003. Bled for hours. Cried for longer. Empty blue eyes.

1011. Cute, he thought, as he slipped under the tree line and into the shadows of the yard.

His heart leaped with anticipation. He jimmied. Click. Shimmied. Shut. Slid seamlessly into the quiet. He could hear her moving. Somewhere inside the cold home.

And he smiled.

Chapter 12

The call came at 6:13 a.m. They drove half an hour to the address Lieutenant Ledger gave them. Crime scene techs and police littered the yard when they pulled up. Local news crews parked across the street, gearing up for a money shot. Cameras were wedged into the crooks of shoulders and reporters held fat microphones close to the chest while staring intently into the camera’s face. Jo couldn’t hear what they were saying but their mere presence irked her.

The single-story home stood crookedly. Surrounded by a brown lawn and a mustard-white fence. Inside, the smell of blood threatened to gag her. They found the victim on the kitchen floor. Her body was sprawled and torn. Her nearly severed fingers dangled from the deep lacerations. Post-mortem bruises appeared like dark swatches across her arms and legs.

She’d fought back. Jo glanced around the kitchen at the trail of blood. It had been a brutal ending. So much unlike the others, but similar all the same. Cuts, bruises, the lethal slice over her corraded artery.

“Amy Wade, 32.” Lieutenant Ledger spoke solemnly.

“You know the victim?” Addams eyed the Lieutenant.

The Lieutenant nodded. “She’s my dentist. We’ve been seeing Dr. Wade since our first kid was born, ten years ago. She shared an office with Dr. Fields for as long.”

“We understand if you need a moment,” Lancaster offered.

“I have to be here. For her.”

Lancaster looked to the team, his eyes silently ordering them to remove the Lieutenant. When the others failed to move, Jo did.

“Actually, Sir, since you knew the victim, maybe you could help us get to know her. For the profile,” she added when he didn’t respond.

Fletcher stepped in, gesturing toward the door. The three of them exited the house. Off to the side and out of range of the microphones, Jo began her questions gently. “What can you tell us about Amy?”

“She was kind, ambitious. She was always smiling and she loved kids.”

“Do you know of anything Amy liked to do for fun, outside the office?”

He shook his head. Clearing his throat he looked behind Jo and to the news crews. “She usually asked about us. What were the kids up to. How was school. She took an interest in our lives but I never thought to ask about hers.” His brow furrowed. “She liked to travel, though. Her office is full of pictures of her skydiving, petting elephants, scuba diving, that kind of stuff. She always had a story to entertain the kids.”

“What about her family?” Fletcher urged.

“She grew up here. Her parents still live in the family home. It’s a few miles back and down a couple of blocks. But they . . .” He paled. Following his wide eyes, Jo looked to the four-door sedan as it pulled up to the side of the street. It’s rusted red stood out among the newer vans hogging the street. Then again, so did the older-looking couple who stepped out. Their faces contorted in confusion.

Uh-oh, Jo thought as Ledger said, “Her parents.”

The media frenzied. Their cameras all focusing on the arrival of Amy’s parents and their reactions to the scene. Reporters pushed their microphones in their direction. Jo quickly made her way to the couple.

“Mr. and Mrs. Wade?” The woman stared blankly at her.

“What is all this? Where’s Amy?” Mr. Wade demanded.

“If you will follow me, I’ll have Lieutenant Ledger explain everything.” Easily, she guided the family behind the stationed officers and away from the greedy hollers of the press. Once she could hear herself speak again, she made the introductions before excusing herself. Lieutenant Ledger could handle the delivery of Amy’s passing; she had another issue to deal with.

She rationalized her decision as she cantered back to the press. Theoretically, this was what she was hired to do; handle the press. If Hughes wanted her to be the face of the FBI, then she had to show her face. They wanted the public to trust them, to ensure them that everything was being handled as swiftly as possible. Though Jo had no intention or desire to be anybody’s face, she knew she’d have to run into the storm if she wanted to secure her place on the team.

There was an uprising of questions. How did Amy die? Why is the FBI here? Is it true a serial killer is on the loose in Chicago? To be determined, lending a hand, yes. Of course, Jo had all the answers, she just knew it was better to conceal the truth until they were able to deliver a profile and strategize a united approach before releasing that Kraken.

Jo stood firm against the onslaught and waited like a grade school teacher for the press to settle down before she spoke.

“The Chicago PD and the FBI are working swiftly to discern the events of late. We do not have any information to share at this time. We ask that you respect the family’s privacy during this difficult period and leave them be. Thank you.”

Jo nodded and turned away, shutting down any chance for further inquiries. The press did not like that. Refusing to answer their questions would only push them to weave theories on their own. Which is what they would’ve done regardless of what she said. But until Lieutenant Ledger and Lancaster decide on a press release, that was all they were going to get. In the very least, she could satiate them for the time being and hope they didn’t get a hold of the intimate details of the case else they would start spinning tales that could hinder their investigation.

“What was that for?” Fletcher grit into her ear.

“I held them off by giving them something.”

“Which was what, exactly?”

“A murder and a grieving family. They’ll release something about a grisly murder happening in a quiet neighborhood and that the Chicago PD are working diligently on the case.”

He considered her. “You didn’t mention a grisly murder, though.”

“No need,” she shrugged. “Reporters are snakes, they’ll find out from another source what happened, I don’t need to add fuel to their fire.”

They reentered the house and were instantly hounded by Lancaster. He’d been waiting by the front window and cornered them the moment they stepped through the crime scene tape.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he hissed. “You were not authorized to talk to the press.”

“Someone had to. Seeing as you were otherwise engaged,” Jo nodded toward Amy’s covered body, “I stepped in. That is why I’m here, isn’t it? To tame the press, be your face.”

If he could, she swore he would fire her right then and there. But his face remained cold and hard. “I would’ve handled the press. You,” he ground at Fletcher. “I told you to keep an eye on her. Keep her from causing any damage.”

“I didn’t know she was going to do that. C’mon. You can’t blame me for a renegade.”

Jo tried not to appear insulted that Lancaster had assigned her a babysitter. Though, it made sense now considering Fletcher had been the one to retrieve her the day before and that she’d been at his side ever since.

Lancaster looked from him to her, then back. “I need to talk to Amy’s peers. Take her with you and I’ll deal with your insurgence later.”

He pushed them from the house, handing Fletcher the keys to one of the SUVs.

Jo waited until they shut the doors to say, “Is this his way of punishing me? By having you watch me?”

Fletcher shook his head. “Trust me, if this is anyone’s punishment, it ain’t yours. You’ll know it when he punishes you. There’ll be no doubting it.”

Nodding, Jo eyed the crime scene as it faded in the rearview mirror, taking with it grieving parents, greedy reporters, and seething bosses.

Chapter 13

The smell of clove oil and acrylics laced the walls of the dentist’s office. Dr. Fields escorted Jo and Fletcher to what had been Amy’s office.

“I can’t believe she’s dead,” Dr. Fields grieved. The room was as sterile as her tools appeared clean and everything had its place.

“How well did you know Amy?” Fletcher prodded softly.

“She worked with me for nearly fifteen years. Started here as a summer intern. I never expected her to come back, let alone get a degree to come work with me.”

Jo eyed the doctor as he answered Fletcher’s questions. He’d been shocked when they told him about Amy’s death. Shock and disbelief. He bartered before he accepted it as the truth. Then he’d begun grieving. Jo could see that grief in his expression now as he struggled to talk about Amy.

“She was dedicated and passionate. She wasn’t afraid of a challenge. Thrived on them.” He pointed to her wall of achievements. Framed photos captured Amy’s treasured memories from around the world. Just as Lieutenant Ledger had said, she loved adventure. A diploma hung in the center. Unlike so many offices Jo has seen, Amy’s was deeply personal and it made Jo’s heart ache for the victim.

As she listened, Jo learned that Amy was a creature of habit. The young woman trained every morning for the Boston marathon and made it to the office by nine sharp. She never left before 5:30 except for when she had a plane to catch or was expected at family dinner. Amy was as predictable as they came.

Jo crossed to Amy’s desk, glancing down at the enlarged calendar.

“Who’s Shandra?” She eyed the name with stars surrounding it. According to the calendar, Amy was supposed to meet Shandra at seven the night before.

“Amy’s best friend.”

“Do you know what they were doing last night?”

Dr. Fields shook his head. “Amy was an open book but she didn’t mention any plans she may have had.”

“Do you know how we can find Shandra?”

“Amy kept a rolodex in her desk. Probably has a copy at home, too.” He started opening drawers until he found the cylinder organizer. When Jo asked if they could borrow it, he didn’t object.

After a few more routine questions, the two thanked Dr. Fields and took down his information just in case they had any questions. In the car, Jo wondered over Amy’s life and soon found herself relating to the victim. A passionate workaholic, family-oriented, single. Despite Jo’s best efforts, though, she still had two older brothers and a half-sister to deal with every holiday while Amy had one younger brother who was still in school according to Dr. Fields.

It took her the entire drive back to the station to shake off her sulk. Being remorseful and sad about the victims is okay, important even, for the job. Empathy is what differentiated her from the serial killers she hunted. Relating to them, however, can lead to dangerous and irrational decisions. Jo couldn’t risk clouding her judgement no matter her feelings.

“What’d you learn?” Lancaster asked before they were both through the door.

Fletcher shrugged. “She was high-risk, like the others.”

“That’s it?”

Jo watched Fletcher hesitate as if considering the validity of Jo’s earlier inquiry. She stared at him until the weight of her eyes forced his hand. “She met a friend the night she died.”

“Who, where, and why?” Addams shot the words like darts: quickly and with solid aim.

“Seven p.m. Don’t know. Not, yet.” Fletcher added when Lancaster’s perpetual frown deepened.

“We have a copy of her rolodex. I’ll contact her friend, break the news, and ask about last night.”

“Anything on the murder weapon?” Donoghue aimed at Lancaster. While Donoghue and Addams canvased the neighbors with the locals, Lancaster had apparently followed the medical examiner for some follow-up questions.

Lancaster shook his head. “He’s comparing the wound marks to the other victims and contacting the other ME’s I’ve given him to inquire about it.”

Addams leaned into his chair pensively. “What I want to know is how he’s traveling?” He looked up to Fletcher and Jo. “How does he get around? What kind of work allows him to take so much time off or does his murders coincide with his work schedule?”

“Truck driver?” Donoghue suggested.

“They don’t usually stay in one city this long,” Fletcher countered.

“And their routes are along major highways. An eighteen-wheeler wouldn’t be so conspicuous to travel around neighborhoods in. He’d need a computer car. Something that blends in.” Lancaster strode over to the maps Fletcher and Jo had highlighted.

“A company car? Or,” Donoghue nodded at the map. “The city system. He’d know the cities well enough by now he could travel easily using public transport. Buses or taxis.”

“He’s too meticulous to leave a trail so obvious.” Donoghue cocked a brow at her as if daring her to challenge him. Jo couldn’t tell if it was an encouraging dare or a don’t-cross-me kind. She pressed on anyway. “Hailing a taxi would create two problems for him, the GPS would track him from wherever he was to the house and the taxi driver as an eye witness. He’s been doing this too long to be dumb like that. Most likely he uses the buses for closer targets and his own car to reach the victims outside the town.”

“In other words, there’s no way to trace how he got to and from their houses without canvasing every bus route or traffic camera.” Fletcher drew a hand through his shaggy hair.

“Not unless you narrow it down to the cameras nearest the victim’s homes. Even then you’ll have countless hours of tape to watch which will yield no results. Did the neighbors notice any out-of-place vehicles along the street last night or at Danielle Water’s home?” Lancaster pulled out his notebook and clicked his pen.

Donoghue walked over to the pot of coffee. From the face he made, it was cold and far from fresh. But he bit back his distaste and drank it. “Only one neighbor woke up when Danielle came home around eleven-thirty. The rest were asleep no later than midnight.”

Jo looked around the room. They were stuck, confused, and she could sense the rising irritation among all of them. It would take nothing short of a miracle to piece it all together.

Chapter 14

It’d been 24 hours since Amy Wade’s murder and two days since Danielle Waters’ and they were no closer to figuring out who the unsub was. The press had released a statement regarding the singular death of Amy Wade but made no connection or mention of Danielle Waters. In their eyes, they weren’t connected. The nausea of seeing

That’s good, Henry thought. As long as the press didn’t make this to be bigger than it was – is – then they stood a chance of closing it before more people got hurt.

Then there was the nausea and displeasure of seeing her face appear again and again on the news cycles had eased some since it first played the day before. Hearing her voice made his stomach turn as if he’d eaten papaya. A mistake he’d never make again.

Henry informed the Lieutenant to answer any questions from the press with as little detail as possible. Sticking to the tried and true: “We’re working as fast as we can to find the person responsible.” Maintaining a distance between both cases allowed them to continue to work them without muddling their theories with the public's inept conjecture. It was Henry’s experience that greedy men would risk the integrity of an investigation for a chance at their 15-minutes. Thankfully, Lieutenant Ledger was not a greedy man.

After sending the others off for the night, Henry resigned himself to his room. Donoghue was quick to jump into the shower, for which Henry appreciated. While his friend bathed, Henry read through witness statements his team had gathered and cross-checked them with the statements the locals had gathered from previous victims’ friends and families. He was hoping he’d find something that would point them to the unsub.

A stranger lurking too closely. An off-feeling. The odd night out. Did they do something spontaneous? Had they tried a new restaurant?

But all he could come up with was a few measly accounts of the victims having a “night out in the town” or attending some concert in the area. No, not a concert. A show. One of those with actors and music.

Henry shivered. He hated musicals. Ever since his mother took him to see Twelfth Night for his twelfth birthday. At the time, his mother thought it humorous. Seeing the play on age and title. He, however, did not and found himself resenting his mother for it whenever she’d pull out an old record with its songs.

He grabbed another account. This one by a grieving mother.

Nicole was a teacher. She loved her students and math. It was the predictability of numbers she liked. But she loved music. She couldn’t sing worth a lick, but that didn’t stop her from trying. I took her to the Ice Capades at the United Center a couple of days ago thinking she’d like it. I was right; a mother always is.

Then another. This time it was the best friend of Savanah Harrington, the fourth victim.

She was spontaneous. I could never guess what she was going to do next. One time she was working for this coffee shop. Raving about being a barista and how making foam art was the coolest thing ever. The next time I’d see her, foam art was out and fashion designing was in. We had plans to go to a concert next month.

Sighing, Henry closed the file. The victims had nothing in common. He was sure of that. Well, not exactly, he corrected. They had the unsub in common, whether they knew it or not.

“Hit another wall boss?” Donoghue sauntered out of the bathroom rubbing a towel over his salt-peppered hair.

“I’m trying to see if the victims went anywhere similar before dying. Maybe there’s something in the friends and families’ statements.”

Donoghue sat at the edge of his bed and pulled on his socks. The man hated sleeping with his toes uncovered. A quirk Lancaster found amusing.

“Maybe you’re thinking about it wrong.”

. . .