Chapter Nine
Sheriff Wexler looked at the crime scene photographs of Sharla Davidson, Lizbeth Kelly, and Taylor Prentice, a sick feeling coursing through his body. All three women had been viciously attacked—their throats slashed; and were former students from Jefferson High. The same person did these killings. “Dammit!” he said aloud. This was the last thing he needed, especially with the election coming up. There’d been an undercurrent of fear throughout the town when Taylor Prentice had been murdered and then Lizbeth Kelly, but with the recent killing of Sharla Davidson, full on terror had spread over Alina. The citizens clamored for news and were impatient with the time it was taking the sheriff’s department to solve the crimes. Wexler and his staff understood the concern, and they assured the townsfolk that they were working hard to solve the killings, but the truth was—they didn’t have a whole lot of forensics to go on. There was a clump of hair found in Sharla Davidson’s fist, but DNA results came back showing it was her own hair. The sheriff surmised that she must’ve pulled out some of her hair when she’d fought for her life.
Hearing a soft knock on the door, he looked up and saw one of his deputies. “Come on in, Miles.” The lanky twenty-eight-year old walked in and sat in the chair in front of his desk. “What can I do for you?”
“Not much. I was just checking in to see if there’ve been any new developments with the Davidson murder.” The deputy had taken a leave for three days to attend the funeral of his grandmother in Durango.
The sheriff pushed the photos to Deputy Carmody then leaned back in his chair. “The results from the hair in Davidson’s hand turned out to be hers. It was a damn blow to the investigation. I’d hoped it would’ve given us a suspect, but now, we got nothing. The few leads we have are drying up.”
Glancing at the set of pictures, Miles shook his head. “The killer had to have known these women. This was definitely personal.”
“We’re on the same wavelength here. These women were murdered by the same person. He knew them or had some connection to them. If we don’t find him soon, I’m afraid he’ll kill again.”
“Maybe he was just aiming for these three for some reason.”
Shaking his head, he took the photos back. “He’s not stopping. Someone who kills with this intensity enjoys it. There’s a rage inside him that has to be sated. No way will the killings stop. We gotta put an end to him to make sure no one else is murdered.”
“Are we sure it’s a man? There was no sexual assault even though the women were nude from the waist down. Could’ve been a red herring, like the person wanted us to believe it was sexually motivated,” Carmody said.
“True. It could be a woman, but it doesn’t strike me that way. Even so, we have to keep all the possibilities open.”
“I was just thinking that since there wasn’t any sexual assault, and whoever did this went out of their way to make us believe these crimes may have been sexually motivated, that it could have been a woman or a younger person.”
“We can’t rule out anything.” Wexler reached for his mug then took a sip of the strong, lukewarm coffee.
Deputy Jeffers walked in and sat on the chair next to Carmody. He glanced at the photos on the desk in front of Wexler then averted his gaze to the sheriff. Jeffers didn’t say anything; he just sat and stared.
Sheriff Wexler had hired Nick Jeffers six months before, thinking he’d be a good fit with the department, but he’d been doubting that decision ever since. The biggest problem was that Jeffers was not a team player, which was essential in order to be effective in law enforcement. The deputy’s probationary period was ending in a couple of months, and unless Wexler saw a change in the way he conducted himself, he’d have to let him go.
Frowning, he rubbed the back of his neck. “What do you want, Jeffers?”
“Just wanted to let you know I arrested the two teens who’ve been spraying shit on those buildings off Highway 57.”
“The abandoned ones?” Carmody asked.
The deputy’s nostrils flared, and he gave Carmody a cold hard stare. “It’s still a fucking crime.”
Miles put up his hands and laughed. “I didn’t say it wasn’t. It’s just that we’ve got three murders on our hands.”
The vein in Jeffers’ temple pulsed. “So that makes it open season on crime?”
From the way the tension was building between his two deputies, Wexler was sure they’d be punching each other in a matter of seconds. “Good work, Jeffers. When kids start shit on abandoned buildings, it’s just a matter of time before they move to other things.” He saw Carmody roll his eyes. “And Carmody’s right about focusing attention on the three murders. We gotta find this sicko before he strikes again, and my gut tells me he will.”
“Didn’t you go to Jefferson High?” Carmody asked Jeffers.
The deputy slammed his fist on the desk, knocking over the picture of Wexler’s grandchildren. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? What’re you saying?”
Taken aback by the outburst, Wexler’s muscles tightened in preparation of an altercation. “Calm the hell down, Jeffers. Carmody was asking a legit question. We’re working to solve these damn murders. Now did you go to Jefferson High or not?”
Redness colored the deputy’s face as he looked down at the ground. “I did. So what?”
“Did you know the three murder victims?”
“I recognized them. We were all in the same class, but I didn’t hang with them if that’s what you’re asking.”
A thread of adrenaline wove around Wexler’s spine. “They were all in the same class? That’s damn important. Do you remember if they were friends back then?”
Raising his gaze to Wexler’s, he shrugged his shoulders. “I wasn’t friends with any of them. They were part of the group who thought they were gonna be stars. You know the type—self-absorbed and stuck-up. There were a few of them in my class—like Jordan Burnside, who now goes by Isla Rose. Can you believe her? She thinks she’s hot shit because she’s in a rock band. Who the fuck cares? I don’t. She was part of that arrogant theater group who never had the time to even acknowledge anyone else.” He scrubbed his face with his open hands.
Wexler glanced at Carmody, who sat open-mouthed, then back at Jeffers. Where the hell did that come from? “It sounds like you didn’t like Sharla Davidson, Lizbeth Kelly, or Taylor Prentice.”
“I wouldn’t say that exactly. In high school I wasn’t crazy about them, but then, I didn’t like most of the kids in my school. I actually hated high school, and after graduation, none of them ever really crossed my mind again. I never thought about or spoke to Sharla, Taylor, or Lizbeth. I had no reason to. Sometimes I’d see them in the store, but I run into a lot of people I went to school with. Alina’s not that big. It’s no big deal when you bump into people around here.”
“Did anyone else feel the same way you did about the three women when they were in high school?”
“I dunno. I suppose there were kids who did. I know some of the girls were pretty pissed off that all the leads in the musicals, plays, and concert performances kept going to the same five.”
Wexler’s heart pounded. “And who were the ‘same five’?”
“Sharla, Lizbeth, Taylor, Carrie, and Jordan. They kept getting the main parts all through high school. Jordan’s the only one who left, and it seems that she’s the only one who made it sorta big. She’s in Iris Blue. I heard she’s back in town.”
Wexler jotted down everything Jeffers said, underlining the words “Isla Rose” and “Iris Blue.” “What’s Carrie’s last name?”
“I can’t remember, but she still lives in town.”
“Do you know where?”
“I think at one of the music venues. She’s a talent buyer. I bet she’s even more insufferable now than she was in high school.”
The sheriff closed his notebook. “Try and think of other people, men and women alike, who didn’t care for these five ladies back in high school. I need your help.”
A grin spread over the deputy’s face as he stood up. “I’ll get on it.” With his chest thrust out, he hooked his thumbs into his belt loops.
“Go on and write up the report about the teens and the graffiti. I have to go over Carmody’s cases now.”
“Sure thing.” He swaggered out and closed the door behind him.
Carmody cleared his throat. “What the hell just happened?”
“We got our first lead: Jefferson High, entertainment department, and our two victims both in the same class. Let’s start with that. Also, find out who this Carrie is. Call all the music venues in the county, but start with Alina. I’ll find”—Wexler looked down at his notes—“Jordan Burnside, a.k.a Isla Rose. I want to see if either woman can tell us anything that can help us. I also want to warn them because my instincts are telling me they’re on this crazed person’s hit list.”
“I’m on top of it. I think we should also look at Jeffers. I mean the guy went loony when you asked if he knew the victims. Besides, why the hell didn’t he mention that he knew them?”
Hating to think that anyone in law enforcement, let alone one of his deputies, could do something like that, he shook his head. “I admit the guy’s odd, but I can’t see him involved in this. We’ll check his whereabouts and such, but let’s not home in on him exclusively. If he felt that way about the victims back in the day, you can be pretty damn sure others did too. See if the theater, art, and music teachers are still at the school. If not, then find them. We’ve been looking in a totally different direction.”
An adrenaline rush swept through Wexler’s body as he watched Carmody rise to his feet and leave the office. For the first time since Sharla Davidson’s murder, he felt that they had a bona fide lead in the investigation. Lightness spread through his chest as he swiveled in his chair. Facing the computer, he typed in Iris Blue and smiled broadly when the first link he saw read “Isla Rose Escapes to Hometown After Meltdown.”
He clicked on it and began reading.