The River Runs Dry (6 page)

The girl lay on the ground, her eyes savagely cut from their sockets. Blood stains trickled down each side of her face, where a large pool or red liquid gathered around her head and out onto the floor.

Her hair was once more cut, ripped and sliced down to the scalp in places, which was peppered with bloody lacerations where the killer had violently cut deep.

There was an open drawer to the side, with a variety of knives and other kitchen utensils inside. Jack quickly put on a pair of plastic gloves and peered inside, lifting a pair of scissors out.

“Didn't look like he used these,” Jack said, staring back down at the torn up hair. “He must have used a knife, but why not the scissors?”

“It's harsher, fiercer. The guy's a killer Jack, he's not giving his victims a pretty haircut here.”

Jack turned back to the living room, where some of the CSI team were still looking for clues and searching for prints.

“They're not going to find anything,” Jack said. “He'll have been wearing gloves.”

He walked in, scouring the room with his eyes, as Carla followed behind. “There was no struggle here. The girl, the other girl, has anyone spoken to her yet?”

“Not yet,” said Carla. “She called us this morning when she found her friend. When I got to the house, she was in total shock, she could barely speak. She was just huddled up on the sofa, her legs in her arms.”

“So you were the first here? What time did she call?”

“About 9 AM.”

“And you said they'd been on a night out? But you told me she hadn't spoken?”

“Nothing more than that Jack, no. She just said they'd been drinking, that Tara had been staying over for the night. That's all we've got.”

“And the victim's name? Tara....”

“Tara Bradford, 25 years old, lives the other side of town with her father.”

Jack leaned back, letting out a breath. “Someone's going to have to go see him.”

“I've already spoken to the Sheriff, he told me he'd do it.”

“The Sheriff?”

“Yeah, I don't know Jack, I think he feels like its his responsibility. He's always been hands on, you know that.”

Jack nodded, walking back into the kitchen. He leaned down, closely examining the girl's face, The sides of her head were unmarked, unbruised. He checked over her head, carefully looking for any signs of an attack, but there was nothing. Only the torn hair. Only the gouged eyes.

He stood back up as Carla's voice rung once more in his ears.

“How do you think he did all this, right next door as her friend slept?”

“There's no sign that he hit her or knocked her out. He must have used something, chloroform perhaps, to knock her out cold. I'm guessing he killed her before setting to work on her eyes and hair. It'd be quieter, cleaner, like that.”

Jack stood again and walked back out through the house and towards the front door. There were no signs of a break in.

“They must have left the door unlocked when they got in,” Jack said, checking the lock.

“Or they knew who it was? Maybe someone else had a key?”

“I don't think so. But I guess we'll find out when we talk to...what's her name, the other girl?”

Carla checked her notes. “Claire Marshall,” she said.

“Right, stay here for me will you and take care of everything. I doubt the coroners report will prove so enlightening this time, but get the body out of here as quick as you can.”

Jack started walking back out into the bright morning sunshine, the heat already building.

“Oh, and Carla,” he said, stopping and turning at the door of his car, “
when
the press turn up, don't tell them anything, OK.”

She nodded. “Sure Jack, no problem.”

…

It was only minutes later that Jack pulled up outside the police department in the center of town. To call it a police department would actually be a bit of an overstatement. The place was small, with only a handful of cops stationed there under the local chief, William Trickle, or as he wanted all his staff members to call him, 'Bill'.

Bill was a coaster; a guy who'd long since given up on being the best cop or chief he could be. He'd been chief in town for over a decade, enjoying the quiet life at his quiet post. Frankly, Jack wasn't quite so sure how he was going to cope when this storm began to rage, and right now the winds were still light.

Jack stepped from his car and walked straight into the building.

“The girl, Claire Marshall, where is she?” he asked the receptionist at the front. Her name was Bet, a middle aged woman who had been drafted in to help out during the hot summer months. With violent crime beginning to soar, it was important that more cops got out on the street, rather than cooped up behind their desks.

“She's in your office Jack, Bill's in there with her.”

Jack nodded and walked straight through to the back where his office looked out onto an adjoining street. He could see the girl, sitting in a chair against the wall, her head still deep in her hands. Bill was sitting next to her, speaking and apparently trying to comfort her.

Jack knocked quietly before slowly opening the door as Bill's eyes lifted to him.

“Ah, Jack, you're here,” he said. He stood and looked quickly down to the girl, before turning back and lowering his voice. “Might I have a quick word, outside?”

Bill stepped out of the door after Jack, quietly shutting the door behind him.

“I assume you know what's going on Jack. Have you been at the house?”

Jack nodded. “Yes, and I need a few words with Miss Marshall here. How is she?”

“She's not great Jack. I know the girl a little bit, and she's not opening up to me. I suggest you leave it a little while longer.”

“Sir, I don't think that's a good idea. The sooner I can talk to her, the better.”

“I understand that Jack, but she's in shock. I'm going to take her to the hospital, get her checked over.”

“Sir, please, let me try. Just give me five minutes to speak to her before you go.”

Bill looked at him closely. “OK, but be gentle. She's very fragile.”

Bill stepped to the side and Jack walked into the room. He stood for a moment, looking at Claire sitting there, her face buried in her hands.

“Miss Marshall,” he said gently, “I just need to ask you a couple of questions. It will only take minute, then you can go.”

Her head stayed buried, her breathing still short.

Jack moved in and pulled a chair up in front of her.

“Claire,” he said, his voice firm, but tender. He was close to her now, leaning forward and whispering. Her head lifted slightly and he caught her eyes. They were red, filled with fear.

“Tell me Claire. What happened last night.”

Her voice was brittle when she spoke, her breathing still short.

“We were out drinking with friends. We came home and had some wine. I...we must have passed out on the.....on the sofa.”

“Where were you drinking Claire?”

“The Brewhouse...” she sniffed.

“And you went home alone....just the two of you?”

She nodded slowly, still weeping.

“Did you see anyone follow you Claire? Did you notice anything strange?”

She shook her head lightly.

“And does anyone have access to your house but you?”

She kept shaking her head. “It's all my fault,” she wept, “I...I left the door open....he must have got in....it's my fault.”

Her hands started shaking again as she buried her head once more into them. Jack glanced round to see Bill looking through the glass, watching closely with a frown on his face. He stepped forward again suddenly, opening the door.

“OK Jack, that's enough for now.”

He moved in and helped Claire to her feet. “Come on honey, let's get you out of here.”

Jack stood as Bill carefully guided her out of the room, her cries and wails growing stronger again as she repeated her friend's name.

What a thing to walk into after a night out. The poor girl blames herself.

But no light was shed by her wailing and shaking voice. He'd go to the Brewhouse, interview the barpeople, the owners, anyone who was there that night. But he didn't expect to get any real answers, any real information. No, the killer wasn't in the bar with her. He wasn't one of her friends, or someone she knew.

This killer was smarter than that. He wouldn't be so easily tracked.

Chapter 8

The town had changed dramatically over the last few days.

There was a nervousness in the air, almost an excitement. A second girl had been found, killed in her friend's home as she lay asleep on the sofa. The details had slowly leaked out as the days went by; gruesome, hideous details.

They spoke of savaged hair, of deep cuts to the scalp. They spoke of eyes, cut from their sockets, of a knife plunged through the open hole and into the brain. They spoke of a killer, a hunter, a soul devoid of humanity, stalking his prey.

Above all, they spoke of a serial killer, and Jessie, as well as everyone else in town, knew that meant only one thing: there was more to come.

But life went on, even for those affected by the recent events. For some, buying a newspaper was a whole new experience. Suddenly the seemingly illiterate found themselves reading every scrap of information they could, fascinated by this devil who'd been awoken from his slumber by the heat, the drought.

Rumors went round of a desert killer, a man who'd lived on the plains all his life, but who'd moved into town to hunt as the temperatures rose. Jessie paid no attention to such rubbish. No, she knew all too well what the people of Burgess were dealing with. She just hoped to God that the killer, this mutilator, would move on soon. Better yet, she wanted him to be caught. She wanted him to have a needle stuck in his arm for what he'd done to Taylor.

Darcia was having a harder time than most. She hadn't suffered grief before, she didn't know how it felt, how to deal with it. She was given time off work, allowed to stay at home and fester, her mind consumed with memories of Taylor, thoughts of a young life cut short, a life that held so much promise.

They'd gone to the funeral together just the day after the new girl was found on that cold kitchen floor. Hundreds of people turned up, not just from Burgess, but from surrounding towns and settlements as well, even from LA where she'd made so many friends in so short a space of time.

The second murder lent a new perspective to it all. It wasn't confirmed by that point, but people were beginning to whisper it already, quietly to each other - “there's a serial killer on the loose.”

But life couldn't stop, it had to move forward, and for Jessie that meant going back to work, back to that shitty diner. Now, however, it was even busier than ever. Tourists were coming to Burgess, not only to use it as a gateway to Death Valley, but to go to see Lancer's Point, and the memorial laid next to the riverbed where Taylor's body had been found.

Then there were the press, dozens of them, all over the town. They filled the hotels, interviewing local people and rushing around trying to dig up any nuggets of new information. Stories were formed and rumors circulated, as the town slowly became a circus. Jessie could see how it might be exciting for someone on the outside, for someone unaffected by everything.

But not her.

No, all of this just made her want to leave even more.

…

“Jessie, table 3, come on, it's going to be another busy day.”

It was early morning, and Jessie was getting her usual barking orders from Boring Brian. He was one of those loving all of this, loving the extra attention the town was getting. More money in his pocket, that's all he thought about.

“How's Darcia doing?” he asked as Jessie walked back from the table with an order written on her pad.

“She's getting there,” Jessie replied, slightly taken aback that he'd even asked. Frankly Brian hadn't ever shown much interest in his staff.

“Well next time you see her will you give her a message?”

“Sure.”

“Tell her that she's got until next week to get back to work or her job's gone.”

Jessie's eyebrows dropped suddenly into a harsh frown.

“Hey, don't look at me like that. I've given her plenty of time. I'm running a business here, not a charity.”

Jessie just shook her head and turned away, muttering an insult under her breath.
And there's another reason to leave this fucking town. What a dick.

It was still relatively quiet in the diner today, the day still young and yet to get into full swing. It was a rare bit of respite from the relentless rushing around she'd been doing recently, made all the worse by the heat.

The bing of the front door opening dragged her eyes up towards the entrance, and a man walked in. She thought she recognized him. No, she knew she recognized him; she'd seen him enough on the news.

He sat down at a table next to the window and pulled down his tie a fraction. It already looked loose enough as it was, wrapped around a lightly crumpled white collar. He wore a pair of gray pants, with a black belt, and had a gun holster and pistol locked to his side.

Jessie walked quickly over to him, dragging her pad from her apron. “Detective Slade, right?” she asked. “You're the one investigating the murders in town?”

The man turned his eyes up. They were a dark hazel color, with an inbuilt weariness. He looked like he hadn't been sleeping that well of late.

“Guilty,” he said, quickly checking Jessie up and down. “You are a real waitress aren't you? You're not just a journalist posing as one?”

He nodded his eyes at the pad and pen in Jessie's hand, and cracked a tired smile.

“Oh, no, I'm a real waitress, you don't have to worry about that. So, what can I get you?”

“Just bring me a coffee – black - and some toast please.”

Jessie dropped the pad and back into her apron. “Right away.”

She walked away and returned a moment later with his order, laying it down in front of him and getting a “thank you” for her trouble.

She lingered there a second, lots of questions on her lips, as his eyes slowly slid back up to hers.