The Well-Meaning Killer

By Miranda Phillips Walker

Miranda Phillips Walker introduces her gusty FBI agent, Megan McKenna, in this engaging and gripping thriller.
The Killer — With victims wrapped like garbage and thrown down well shafts, he’s labeled “The Wishing Well Killer.” A Quasimodo type, plagued by a voice in his head.
The Heroine — Tenacious and eager to prove herself, her last case having left her scarred and vulnerable, Megan McKenna’s in a race against time before the killer strikes again. Assisting her is a FBI profiler and former lover, alongside a veteran detective. The trio tracks a madman and learns he is someone from Megan’s past, someone all too willing to place her in mortal danger.
The Scam — As McKenna and law enforcement throw out a net to catch the maniac, an insidious under-the-table scam in the Maryland State foster care system, is uncovered — a link between her case, unscrupulous lawyers, and the killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Venture Press
• Release date: Apr 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463808375

Miranda Phillips Walker

Miranda Phillips Walker enjoys writing period.Look for other novels by her.It's Falling Time" Dark Tales of Terror AnthologyTools & Tidbits for Writerswww.blogspot.mirandaphillipswalker"The Well Meaning Killer"Miranda Phillips Walker is uniquely qualified to pen The Well Meaning Killer, as both a suspenseful mystery and an expose of the corruption and graft in the underbelly of our Nation’s foster care programs and systems. Walker, a Registered Nurse, also holds a Psychology degree with a minor in Sociology and has been a Registered Nurse for over seventeen years. Her life in medicine has been far more exciting and colorful than any program on TV such as ER or Grey’s Anatomy. Walker has a wealth of knowledge that she brings to bear on the writing of a novel of aberrant behavior and the ins-and-outs of the agencies that abuse the foster care system. She has worked for the State Government in West Virginia, countless hospitals, and is currently working as an Emergency Room Nurse. She has four children, and one stepson, and is married to Robert W. Walker, a prominent and inspiring author of suspense and intrigue. She currently resides in Charleston, West Virginia, and visits family in Chicago and Baltimore often. Miranda says of The Well Meaning Killer, “I understand the demons that drive Crusher, the killer, and I have insights into the Child Protective Services that few possess. Going into the writing of this novel, I was armed with the right tools and weapons to make it work. I trust that the reader will agree. Walker lived twenty-seven years in Baltimore, Maryland and it is there she received her degrees in Nursing and Psychology. Miranda has enjoyed writing from an early age using writing and the love of music to comfort her from her turbulent upbringing. When asked about her childhood, Walker usually laughs and says only she was really raised by a pack of wolves. Never a person to let life knock her down she used her life experiences to help her patients and hopefully bring entertainment to her readers.

Book preview

A Megan McKenna Mystery

Miranda Phillips Walker

Bold Venture Press

Copyright

The Well-Meaning Killer

Copyright © 2020 Miranda Walker. All rights reserved.

Cover art: Copyright © 2020 SR Walker Designs. All rights reserved.

Stephen R. Walker, cover design

Audrey Parent, editor

Bold Venture Press edition April 2020

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is coincidental.

Electronic Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Contents

Title page

Copyright

Dedication

Quote

The Well-Meaning Killer

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

About the author

Bold Venture Press

Dedication

This novel is dedicated to all the Law Enforcement Agencies and Government employees that work tirelessly every day to bring missing children back home and bring the guilty to justice.

Quote

I heard the dead cry

I was lulled by the slamming of iron,

A slow drip over stones,

Toads brooding in wells.

All thieves stuck out their tongues;

I shook the softening chalk of my bones ...

Theodore  Roethke,

The Lost Son (1948)

The Well-Meaning Killer

Chapter One

Aberdeen, Maryland July 13, 2008, 11:20 PM

FBI agent Megan McKenna knew something about being treated like garbage, and she knew what it felt like to be placed inside a hole in the ground. Her father had seen to that; he used a well out back of the house to discipline her, leaving her to shiver in the dark — sometimes for hours. But she was an adult now with a job to do, and she needed to keep her head in the game.

Rain pounded her drenched coat and gear. The soggy ground sank beneath Megan’s hiking boots, which she’d earlier dug from her car trunk. For two days and nights, a continuous downpour had pummeled the Baltimore area. Mud flowed everywhere, yet somehow the dogs had picked up the scent. The animals and handlers quickened their pace to the edge of the woods. After two days of searching, Megan feared she and Phil Jenkins had accomplished their goal — a goal with a doubled-edge. One they needed — for more information about this killer, but also one that meant more death bundled in a horrible package and dumped down this remote well.

Yes, here it is, and it feels inevitable, imminent, and quite disconcerting.

As the German Shepherds frantically thrashed around the abandoned well, their barking increased. This was no drainpipe hole in the ground, but an old-fashioned fieldstone structure, covered in lichen and mold and tenacious weeds at its base. It hadn’t the overhanging bucket or canopy of a storybook well but rather a crude, falling apart rustic wooden lid that’d been snatched from its moorings and pushed to one side. Here it leaned awkwardly away in a mocking gesture of a child’s slide. The ugly, weathered lid, braided together by two bands of iron, had gone to rot, soaked through from years of rain damage. Small sections had broken away where Detective Phil Jenkins and some of the others had hefted the monstrosity, dirt and weeds clinging to it. The men of the Baltimore Police Department stood staring down into the black hole they’d uncovered, curious, muttering to one another, all soaked through to their BVDs, but no one was climbing down into the well; no one but Phil had volunteered when Megan piped up, shouting, Back off, gentlemen. This is where being a size six is needed.

No one on the Baltimore Aggravated Assault Taskforce (BAAT) expected to find the victim alive. Both the Baltimore Police Department and Megan McKenna, an FBI behavioral scientist, had by now bellied up to the well, which had become the central focus since the body-sniffing dogs had surrounded it. They’d all been standing and staring down into the black interior, all waiting to be told by lead investigator, Jenkins ‘what next’ before making a move.

Baltimore detective Phil Jenkins handed Megan a flashlight and a rappelling harness. Without a word, Megan quickly and expertly attached the harness and started down the well. Actions speak louder than words, she recalled from her training officer at Quantico, Marcela Hiesling, who’d drilled it into her. Earlier, she and Phil had discussed who’d be dropping down into the abyss; they’d early on decided that there wasn’t a man among them small enough in the shoulder-width to manage the area offered by that hole in the ground. Phil had argued that he could manage it with his thin frame, but Megan had cut him short with, I can get in, eyeball it, and be out quickly, Phil, whereas you or Grogan over there’d be stuck halfway down, and no one wants to call in the fire department.

She now inched downward into the black interior, feeling the small space at each shoulder- knock grabbing at her petite body. Small particles of moss and plant life, crumbling stone, and spindly naked roots conspired with an overwhelming odor of dampness, earth, and decay. All crowding in on me. It felt like being buried alive, and even more so when Grogan and some of the other fools above threatened to place the lid over her as a sick joke. She heard Phil overhead putting an end to the tomfoolery before it’d gone too far. Megan breathed deeply and paid for it, as the odors here choked her and permeated every pore. She already wanted out of here, wanted soap, a shower, elbow space … but instead she focused on the task as difficult as it was. She suppressed all personal memories, hoping against hope that her instinct about what they’d find at the bottom was wrong.

She concentrated the light on the darkness below, seeing an ominous reflection that struck her full force. The light had caressed a slick black Hefty trash bag. Something in the bag created a bulge. Something wicked indeed lay here at the bottom of the well.

Grabbing hold of the black bag, she felt its weight tug back. Resistance. She tightened her grip and hefted it, fearful she’d not have the strength necessary. But she won the struggle, gaining on the awkward cargo.

Phil! Get me the hell outta here! Her voice echoed up the well, sounding more of a distress bell than she’d meant to."

With the men above assisting, it was an easy ascent, yet too slow for Megan, who felt anxious for solid ground.

Overhead, it’d begun to rain again. As she emerged with the evidence, Phil rushed to help her over the lip of the well. No one said a word, but the search team moved in as McKenna untied the bag. Mottled flesh stared back at them, the stench unbearable. The skin appeared intact, the stomach distended. The young victim’s head, covered with a plastic bag and secured with duct tape, proved all too sickeningly familiar. Unfortunately, the same MO as the last two victims had suffered within a three-week span, and still no clue to the sick monster behind these merciless killings.

Megan looked up at Jenkins and the others, and with a weary sigh, shook her head. She could feel the heat of everyone’s stare … waiting for her to freak out or have a breakdown, given her recent history with cases of this nature, all involving wells in the Virginia-DC area.

Phil tugged at Megan’s elbow, pulling her close so others wouldn’t hear. Just let it be, kiddo. Don’t even go there.

Like that’s possible, Phil?

A few weeks before, Jenkins could not have imagined saying any kind or consoling word to Megan. No cop liked the Federal Bureau of Incompetence moving in on his case, let alone a know-it-all, strong-willed redhead with a hair-trigger temper. Jenkins had overheard others at the precinct gossiping about McKenna’s leave of absence and questionable mental status. In other words, the FBI hadn’t sent their finest. The story he’d heard went along the lines of McKenna’s having lost it after being unable to save some kid over in D.C. from a real whack job like the one they now faced.

A shout from someone on the team to get more amps on site echoed about the woods, and this, along with wildly flashing lights from a cadre of squad cars disturbed Jenkins’ train of thought. Phil frowned to see Megan step away from him. She now worked her way through the heavy mud and rain, returning to the road where the ambulance and attendants waited for the go-ahead. You can stand down, have a smoke, she told the jacketed male and female paramedics. No one’s in need of life support or attention from anyone but Dr. Massey.

The mention of the medical examiner’s name said it all, and the medics nodded appreciatively. Jenkins shouted for a uniformed officer to accompany the body to the morgue while Megan studied the chaos he was in charge of, knowing the choreography of their murder scene was already badly staged, at the whim of nature, and shaky at best. Too many footprints going in and out, and no chance of tire prints as they had been destroyed by the rains. Any chance of finding a useful clue sat at zero percent. And she knew the killer would have left no trace of himself on the victims.

And damn Phil Jenkins for taking me aside to calm me down before the others, like I’m his assistant … like I’m some grade school child in need of milk and cookies.

The forensic team remained busy securing the crime scene. The sound of mud sloshing became a mantra, growing louder as the CSI people moved in to take photos and search for trace evidence that Megan knew would not be found. Just then Phil joined her, standing alongside, soaked, arms crossed as he watched the organized chaos. She sensed he was about to give her more advice, so she spoke first. Hardly seems a likely possibility that CSI’ll find anything useful in this soupy marsh.

Still gotta go through the motions. He rubbed his hands into one another.

Cold? she asked.

This kinda thing always makes me cold to the bone.

She nodded appreciatively, staring at the CSI force. They had their orders straight from Dr. Massey.

Gonna be damn impossible to triangulate the position of the body, complained Phil in her ear.

Not so hard, really. Use the well.

The well?

Just state the body was found in the well. Triangulate the damn well.

"Ahhh … gotcha, right. I’m sure our guys can figure it out. The Baltimore PD maintains an excellent crime scene unit. If anyone can find any — "

Assume nothing, detective. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in law enforcement, it’s that — Assume nothing.

Phil nodded unappreciatively and grunted.

Megan said a silent prayer for the young person in the bag as the rest of the world — like gray shadows — worked at the evidence gathering.

The Chief Medical Examiner for the Greater Baltimore area, Dr. Joseph A. Massey, joined Megan and Phil. Massey gave his cursory opinion from having spent a few minutes with the young female victim. "I’d say an autopsy will pretty much confirm it’s him again."

Which doesn’t help us a whole hell of a lot, Doctor, replied Jenkins.

Massey’s features pinched, reflecting his own pain. Just wanted you to know as lead detective on the case, and you, Agent McKenna.

Then you’ve no doubt that it’s his handiwork? pressed Phil.

I don’t imagine there’re two nutcases stuffing young people down wells, do you?

Megan inwardly smiled at hearing Massey say aloud precisely what she was thinking. Third victim in as many weeks. With her hair plastered against her head, she was as soaked through as Phil. Let us know when you schedule the autopsy.

Massey nodded, staring at her. "Will do, of course. Meantime, Agent McKenna, are you OK?"

Megan’s jaw was set so hard that her teeth were grinding below her cheeks, and her eyes must have shone her disappointment. Still she hammered Massey. I’m fine, damn it, fine! And I wish people would stop asking.

This effectively ended her conversation with Joe Massey. He turned back toward the old well and the body as if more comfortable with the dead, and Megan started after him, wanting to apologize but too late. In the confusion of strobe lights and shadows, she thought the grimy little stone well squatted like a grimacing ogre just winking at her in some bizarre illusion that comes with fatigue and wind and shadow of night to conspire against reason. When she looked up again, she saw that Detective Jenkins had also distanced himself from her. Her eyes went back to the horrible black bag and the body, and she whispered to the spirit of the victim, Whoever you are, kiddo, we’ve found you, and you’re not alone with the devil anymore.

Chapter Two

Walking away from the scene, any crime scene, was difficult for the in-charge person, in this case both Megan and Jenkins. The full weight of the taskforce fell on their combined shoulders, and if something were to be missed at the crime scene, too often, there were no second chances. She shouted for everyone to be as thorough as possible given the continuing deluge from on high. I want every scrap, every cigarette butt, every cue tip you find, anything out of place or odd taken back to the lab. Don’t assume anything!

Jenkins seconded her words with a booming, You got that?

After another hour passed, the noise of thunder and the continued downpour made communicating more difficult than ever. Megan had to move from small group to small group, until she found a group of Baltimore detectives under Jenkins’ command, with Phil at their center. They stood hunched together below a tree, somehow smoking in this deluge, cracking jokes, and talking sports. Megan lashed out at them. You guys! Give Dr. Massey a hand with the lid to that well. She pointed in the direction of the well.

Grogan, a bear of a man, growled, Whataya want with that piece of crap?

Yeah, agreed Feldman, no way anyone’s gonna find prints after this flood.

That splintered old piece of crap as you call it could have fibers, hair, who knows embedded in it? she challenged. I want it examined by light of day under halogen lamps for any clues.

FBI oughta know, muttered Grogan who signaled his compliance by putting his cigarette out and pocketing the butt.

Ahhh..I doubt it’s worth heftin’ outta here, Feldman added with a shrug.

Just do it! Phil ordered.

Groaning and muttering and bitching, the men went for the lid. She called over her shoulder, And wear gloves!

After a second talk with the medical examiner, Megan and Phil prepared to drive back to headquarters downtown. Phil had become the least objectionable guy on BAAT, to which she must give thanks since he’d been put in charge and not Grogan or Feldman. As a result of having to work out of the Baltimore Police Department with the task force and not from her field office, everything in her professional life for the duration of this case could be defined as temporary. She temporarily shared office space at the notorious Central District, BPD with Jenkins; she temporarily had been assigned to the task force as support of a profiling nature which pretty much defined her as a third wheel so far as the detectives assigned to the case were concerned. Thus, a guy like Phil Jenkins had won the dubious honor of least objectionable.

We got the paper trail to get back to, Phil said now.

Megan lit up a Marlboro Light. Damn it, it’s gonna be another long night.

Thought you were off the nicotine, Phil said.

Megan took a long satisfying drag from the cigarette, ending with a noise that sounded like a sigh of relief. Back on tonight.

The heat to find answers to these horrible killings was coming from all directions and on every burner: the governor’s office, the mayor, the city commissioner, her FBI boss, Special Agent in Charge Xavier Hollis, and Phil’s Captain Jacob ‘Jake’ Backus, whose outcry was nearly as loud as the press, TV and radio.

All three young girls were found in the same condition in now three different locations, each body stuffed unceremoniously down a well, packed in polyurethane with duct tape, like yesterday’s garbage. All Megan knew for sure at this point was that the monster responsible had a thing for young victims and big holes in the ground. She and Phil in particular had burned the midnight oil, watching sunsets and sunrises together in a less than romantic circumstance. The killer had eluded police; playing a game that Grogan had dubbed murder of the week. They needed a break, and it could not come too soon; pre-teen lives were at stake.

Megan and Phil discussed the particulars, filled in the forms, checked the boxes, and signed off on the paperwork that Captain Backus would find staring him in the face tomorrow morning. Backus had been notified of their latest find, but as his home was in the suburbs, the lateness of the hour, and his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary to boot, he had declined coming out in the storm.

Outside the windows, the storm had abated. Nothing more she could do tonight short of sleeping on her temporary desk. She called a cab instead and went home to her bed and Max, her Labrador retriever, a retired FBI search and rescue canine with citations — and lately her best friend.

***

The loud shrill of the alarm clock broke through the silence of her apartment to awaken Megan from a deep slumber, a curled-up Max forming an excellent pillow. She grabbed the clock and slammed it on the nightstand, Max instantly alerting on the sudden clamor. Aside from the purposeful chaos and noise of the shooting range, Max hated loud noises almost as much as she did.

Another shrill noise attacked her ear. Now it’s the damn phone! she informed Max and grabbed the receiver. Hello, yeah, what is it?

Phil replied, You ahhh … awake?

Yeah…still among the living, thank you very much.

Got something for your eyes only. God, she thought, I hope he’s talking about the case. All right just keep your shirt on. Be right there, after I take Max outside for a quick run. Man, but this guy gets on my last nerve.

Megan changed clothes and took Max out for quick run, then showered, dressed, called a cab and made it across town in an hour, but feeling like hell and wondering if she looked it.

She found Phil at his desk with papers and photos of the crime scene spread out before him. As soon as Megan’s shadow crossed Phil’s desk, darkening the files, he looked up with a huge grin on his face.

Not really a morning person are you, agent … ahhh Meg? They’d spent so many hours now together Phil thought he could dispense with titles.

Phillip, I’d prefer you call me Megan, and not Meg, OK?

Sure thing. Please, Megan, sit. Found a few interesting tidbits that might wake you up.

How can you be so damn cheerful this time of day? Megan adjusted the oversized FBI logo coffee mug in her hand. And why the hell do you have that grin on your face? Come on what gives?

"Well, I’ll tell you, Megan, after studying the profiles and making a few calls, I’ve perceived a common link between two of the victims."

Megan blinked at this, her eyes wide, and she joined Phil, trying not to stare at his broad shoulders. Really? How so?

"They were both foster kids … and get this … even more curious, they came from the same foster agency."

You’re kidding? What about the third kid?

Just called Dr. Massey, and he’s like you — has to have his beauty sleep. Says no positive ID yet.

So … no leads on number three.

Nor any leads on the biological or foster parents yet.

Weird. No one’s come forward to identify these foster kids?

Yeah, weird as in raises red flags. I tell you, it’s like these people don’t exist.

You’re saying our kids are like from Mars?

Something like that. At the very least, we’ve got our work cut out for us. Give me time to dole out responsibilities to the other task force members, and then you and I, we’re going to pay a visit to the placement agency. See if we can pick up the trail on these girls.

Who they crossed paths with last hours of their lives, yeah. Megan nodded vigorously.

Good old-fashioned police work. Got comfy shoes?

She didn’t reply, going for the task force board to see who was assigned duties for the day. Meanwhile, Jenkins, speaking to Grogan and Feldman, ordered a return to the last crime scene area. Speak to anyone living in the surrounding woods. Someone somewhere must’ve seen something out of the ordinary.

Megan had planned to go over medical examiner reports and crime scene photos for any missed clues but the coincidence of two of the victims having been doled out to families from the same agency was too good to pass on. Returning to Jenkins, she said, I’m ready to roll. How ’bout you?

Phil tossed a clipboard aside and found himself catching up as Megan crossed to the elevators. Phil heard Grogan and Feldman laughing behind his back, something about Jenkins acting as Jeeves to the FBI lady. Ignoring this, Phil called after Megan, shouting loud enough for the others to hear, Only if I drive, Princess! After being up with you all night … not ready for another roller-coaster ride.

The ribbing and juvenile behavior of the men she had to work with only left Megan exhausted. She ignored it for now, biting back a curt reply. She secretly enjoyed it when guys included her in on the fun, but their timing could be so off, and their language so crude. OK, she told Phil. You’re driving. So where’n hell is this place, anyway?

They took the elevator down. Out in the boonies ’bout twenty-five miles from the inner harbor.

Good … maybe I can get some sleep on the way, and you can fantasize about that roller-coaster ride.

Chapter Three

Phil drove a metallic blue Mustang, typical for the diehard bachelor he presented himself to be. Megan bent down to get into the car, thinking she must make the best of this situation the bureau had stuck her with. Megan had only been working with Jenkins for a few weeks now. He was capable, but she still didn’t feel at ease with him. Hard to read this one. But she had read his file to know just who she was dealing with, and he had an impressive record of cleared cases. Phil had been a Baltimore cop now for a decade, once decorated after a shootout at a bank robbery which left his partner disabled.

Megan sat back while Phil easily navigated his way through early morning Baltimore traffic, not too heavy for this time of day. After twenty-five minutes or so, they got off the Havre De Grace exit where the scenery took on a distinctly country flair.

Nice change of pace from the usual city grind, Phil announced to break the ear-throbbing silence between them since the roller-coaster remark.

City grime, you mean? she replied.

Yeah, that too.

Slowing down, they entered the historical town of Havre De Grace. The main street was lined with a host of typical neighborhood shops and businesses: pharmacies, taverns, jewelers, diners, antique dealers, and the requisite number of bed and breakfasts, boutiques, and ice cream parlors. A large weathered sign below a pinnacled Victorian home at the end of the business district read Our Lady of Peace.

Gotta like the traffic patterns in these small towns, Phil said as if to himself.

As Phil pulled to the curb, she added, And there’s no parking problem.

Ya think?

Megan surveyed the grounds and audibly noted, Strange.

Strange what? What’d I do?

Not you. Look, listen.

I don’t hear anything.

That’s what’s strange. You got children, you got noise, so where’s are the sounds of youth?

Hmmm … maybe they’re on some field trip someplace or at the local Y.

Having climbed from the car, they headed up the stone steps and pushed through the huge wooden doors. They were soon walking down the ancient, echoing marble-tiled floor, each amazed at the beautiful hardwood paneling and banisters. Obviously, there’d been a heyday when this place had been used as a Catholic school; days long gone. Finally, they arrived at a door marked Office. Inside sat a secretary behind a glass window in a large metal cage, looking anything but friendly. Megan got the impression of an overweight parrot on her perch. After standing before this stone woman for several minutes, the secretary finally waddled toward the sliding glass window to acknowledge their presence. She slid the glass window open with a jerk, sending the excess fat on her upper arm into a wiggling motion like shaken Jell-O minus the color. Megan noted the formal nametag: Mrs. Patricia Adams.

May I help you? the bird woman asked.

Megan took the lead. Yes, I’m Agent McKenna, FBI, and this is Detective Jenkins of the Baltimore Police Department.

Oh, my! she chirped.

We’d like to talk with your supervisor about a couple of foster kids who were placed from your agency.

I see, well Mrs. Kripes handles all the placements. Her chubby fingers went for the desk phone, her eyes averted. Just a moment, please. Mrs. Adams turned her back on them as she spoke in a muffled tone to her boss. The detectives caught snatches of her words: detectives…yes…FBI…yes. After another interminable period, Mrs. Adams stood, came round out of her cage, and said, Right this way, please. The secretary led the detectives down the hall, occasionally glancing back with a curious stare, vacant and expressionless. The hall smelled of cleaning fluids, and every single door to each room along the hall appeared recently polished. Not a single door stood open. Locked? Megan wondered. Still no sound of kids playing or chasing about. Of course, foster kids ranged in a full array of ages. This particular agency might well cater to the older age groups.

Megan’s thoughts ended when a tall, thin woman came out to greet them as if heading them off. Detectives, good morning, I’m Mrs. Adriane Kripes. Patricia said you have questions regarding some of our girls? Two placements?"

Megan did a mental double-take, trying to recall if she or Phil had mentioned the sex of the victims to Adams or not, but she couldn’t recall.

Two murder victims now, Phil replied bluntly.

Mrs. Kripes gasped as if her secretary hadn’t informed her of this. I’d prayed Patricia had misunderstood. This is terrible news.

It’s a sad state of affairs, agreed Megan.

Please, this way to my office.

Megan and Phil were soon sitting before Mrs. Kripes’ large antique desk, facing the woman who now dabbed at her tearful eyes with a colorful hanky.

Mrs. Kripes, began Phil, we’re investigating these killings in the Baltimore area, and reviewing files, we learned that the victims were placed from Our Lady of Peace.

This is so awful, our girls? What are their names?

She’s counting this morning’s news headline as another of their girls, Megan thought. Why? Amanda Skaggs and Tracey Davis are the victims, explained Megan, correcting the woman. Two victims placed by your agency.

Mrs. Kripes rose out of her chair and began pacing the floor, wringing her hands,