Night Terror: Delta Detectives

By Stacy Green

When a woman is found raped and murdered in her home, Criminal Investigator Cage Foster believes she is a victim of a serial rapist who is stalking Adams County. But why did the woman's attacker dial 911?

Medical examiner Summer Jordan also believes the rapes are related, but Cage's boss disagrees and sends him after a known petty criminal in the county's African-American community, fueling racial tensions.

Ignoring her order could mean career suicide, but Cage doesn't have time for office politics or petty grudges. The Night Terror has already chosen his next victim. 

Will Cage be able to figure out the attacker's next move in time, or will another woman meet the same terrible fate?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stacy Green
• Release date: Sep 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386874485

Stacy Green

About the author Born in Indiana and raised in Iowa, Stacy Green earned degrees in journalism and sociology from Drake University. After a successful advertising career, Stacy became a proud stay-at-home mom to her miracle child. Now a full-time author, Stacy juggles her time between her demanding characters and supportive family. She loves reading, cooking, and the occasional gardening excursion. Stacy lives in Marion, Iowa with her husband Rob, their daughter Grace, and the family’s three obnoxious but lovable canine children. Website: www.stacygreen.net Amazon Author Page Facebook Stacy Green, Author Twitter @StacyGreen26

Book preview

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Middle of the night calls always set Cage Foster on edge. Although some of the worst calls he’d attended had been in searing daylight, hearing his radio crackle to life at 2:00 A.M. raised the fine, damp hairs on the back of his neck. Sometimes the calls were benign, like the mother he’d just finished interviewing. She’d been convinced her son’s friend tried to kill him with a Roman candle. Three days after Independence Day, the two teenagers had plenty of fireworks and too much marijuana.

As a Criminal Investigator for the Adams County Sheriff’s Department, he’d done his time responding to routine calls. Any dispatch to his radio meant the potential of something serious. He’d rather walk a murder scene than navigate his way between an abusive spouse and the bleeding woman who was more pissed off at the police than at the man who beat her.

He slid into the cruiser just as the dispatcher’s voice requested Cage’s location. 261, victim is 10-45C. Responding officers requesting Investigator.

Cage’s head fell back against the back of the warm, leather seat. His stomach turned. He changed his mind. A domestic call would be easier than this–a 261 signaled a rape call, and this was the second in three weeks. The code indicated the victim was seriously injured but alive. 10-4. Investigator Cage Foster en route.

Dispatch rattled off the address: a single-family residence a few miles outside of Roselea city limits.

Cage turned on his lights and headed to the scene, mind reeling. Domestic assault was fairly common in Adams County, especially during the summer. People drank more, worked harder, tempers flared. Thankfully, violent crimes like rape were few and far between. Until now. Three weeks ago, someone raped and murdered Violet Pierce in her home. She lived alone, just like the woman who’d been attacked tonight. The city detective working the case believed Violet must have known her attacker, but no one wanted to share information. With the case stalled, the sheriff’s office was asked to assist but wasn’t able to glean anything more. And now another woman’s life had been shattered. He couldn’t help but think that two rapes in three weeks had to be linked. Cage prayed this victim would be able to give them something to start with. Even better, identify her attacker.

The niggling voice at the back of his brain told him this wasn’t going to be so simple.

At 2:30 A.M., bright stars littered the clear, nighttime sky. A quarter moon hung perfectly, as if it had been tacked onto the sky by a skilled artist. As Cage drove down the county gravel road, the flashing red lights corrupted the peacefulness of the scene. An ambulance rushed past him. Radio chatter told him the rape victim was headed to Roselea General for surgery. If she didn’t survive, this case could very well go the way of the last woman’s attack: stone cold with very little hope for new leads.

Thriving clematis partially covered the numbers on the mailbox. Cage slammed the brakes, whipping into the driveway fast enough that gravel sprayed behind him.

Catching his breath, he took in the exterior scene. Small house. Cozy and well maintained. Every light turned on, likely by responding officers. No real front porch, but a set of cement steps. Experience had taught Cage cement made sneaking up on someone much easier than a wooden porch. Two sheriff’s cruisers were parked in tandem in the narrow drive. Cage edged in behind them. Making sure he had his notebook, pen and camera, along with his badge, he headed toward the house.

Humidity thickened the air. Cage wiped the moisture that immediately broke out over his upper lip. He nodded to Deputy McKay, who’d just exited the house.

You got out here quick, McKay said. A veteran deputy, plump and gray-haired Bobby McKay worked a crime scene better than anyone. His presence gave Cage hope of something useful being found.

I was dropping off a kid at General. Burned his fingers trying to light a Roman candle and win a ten-dollar bet with his buddy.

McKay grunted. Stupid generation can’t even figure out how to do that right. He sighed, adjusting the belt of his uniform. Cage gave him a moment. First responders on scenes like this one absorbed more horrific images than anyone else. McKay cleared his throat. Victim’s name is Marilou Reynolds. Early forties, lives alone. She teaches social studies at the high school. She was beaten with a blunt object and then sexually assaulted. We found her unconscious, sprawled out across her bed, bleeding from several places, including her mouth. She’s barely alive.

McKay sighed heavily, shaking his head. I can’t believe this has happened twice in less than a damned month.

Cage didn’t comment on the implication. Forced entry?

Shitty lock on the back door, McKay said. Easily picked. He broke the damn thing in the process.

Just like the rape a few weeks ago. Think it’s the same guy?

McKay shook his head, running his hand over his short, damp hair. Couple of big differences. The first victim was black. Marilou Reynolds is white. First woman was strangled, Reynolds was beaten.

That complicated things. Rapists usually stuck to a specific race, and serial rapists often chose a specific type of victim. So we’ve got two violent offenders running around here?

McKay shrugged his big shoulders, thick lines between his shadow-lined eyes. I don’t know what the hell to think. I can get past the strangling versus beating for now. That can be chalked up to convenience or maybe even the attacker evolving. But the skin color…statistics say that’s supposed to mean something.

They aren’t always right, Cage said. If the scene looks similar, we can’t ignore it.

Agreed, but the other case isn’t exactly a secret around here. Wouldn’t be hard to copycat.

The first victim, Violet Pierce, had plenty of neighbors in her apartment complex, yet none saw anything suspicious. Cage hadn’t worked that case, but he knew the few hairs recovered belonged to known associates, and the unknowns weren’t a match for anyone in CODIS. No prints or seminal fluid was left.

If we keep operating on the theory that Violet Pierce knew her attacker, then maybe Marilou Reynolds knew hers as well. Assuming two different men did this. I’ve got my doubts about that.

McKay scratched his chin. You know you’re talking about two different worlds and a big can of rotten worms, right? The Roselea detective thinks Violet’s attacker was black. White man in a complex with almost all black residents stands out, especially if he’s sneaking around at night.

I know what the place is like, Cage said. I’ve been out on drug calls there. They watch out for their own. Cage glanced around Marilou Reynolds’s quiet lot and the well-maintained yard leading to the small house. A maple tree provided ample shade–and cover. She didn’t have any sort of security light. The nearest neighbor was out of sight.

So if the same person who raped Violet did this, McKay said, we’re looking for a black man who’s now attacked a white woman. That’s not going to go over well.

Racial issues in the South might be better than they were fifty years ago, but the divide still cut through the communities. Many black residents didn’t trust the police to treat them fairly, making Cage’s job a lot harder. He didn’t blame them, but he still had a job to do.

I know we’re going to piss people off, but the priority has to be solving this case. Cage pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket. How many people have been inside the house?

Just myself and the paramedics. McKay nudged the cardboard box sitting on the top step. Booties.

Cage slipped on the blue paper footwear and latex gloves and then entered the house. The crime scene unit was on its way, but he wanted to get a look at the scene while it was still mostly untouched.

The front door opened into a very small tiled entryway, which led into a living room with the usual decor: television, couch, recliner, and end tables. Marilou Reynolds liked photography. Several framed nature photographs hung on her white walls, many of them local