Sight Unseen: Guardians, Inc: Witch Hollow, #1

By Esther Mitchell

When a wealthy philanthropist is found dead in a locked room, with no apparent cause of death beyond the faint scent of incense, Dr. Faith MacKenzie and her team have their work cut out for them. As the case starts to go cold, she'll be forced to turn to a man with abilities in which she can't bring herself to believe, and credentials that leave her no choice but to accept the possibility he might just be on the level.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Esther Mitchell
• Release date: Oct 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781955301060

Book preview

Guardians, Inc: Witch Hollow

Book One

Sight Unseen

By

Esther Mitchell

This work is copyright 1995 by Esther Mitchell

Guardians, Inc.: Witch Hollow

Book One: Sight Unseen

COMING SOON

Book Two: Up In Flames

Other Books By Esther Mitchell

PROJECT PROMETHEUS

COMING SOON

Book One: In Her Name

Book Two: Hope of Heaven

Book Three: Shadow Walker

Book Four: Blood Debt

Book Five: Between Worlds

HANOVER INVESTIGATIONS

Book One: Burden of Proof

COMING SOON

Book Two: Silent Night

LEGENDS OF TIRUM

COMING SOON

Book One: Daughter of Ashes

Book Two: Phoenix Rising

Book Three: Spirit Mage

Book Four: Mistress of Cats

Book Five: Sister of Dragons

Book Six: Child of Fallen Waters

UNDERGROUND

Book One: Tamia

Book Two: Mind Killer

Book Three: Terminal Hunter

Book Four: Hero's Hope

Book Five: Vengeful Heart

COMING SOON

Book Six: Deadly Designs

FyrRose Productions.

637 S. Cynthia Avenue

Tucson AZ 85710

http://www.esthermitchell.com

Copyright © 1995 by Esther Mitchell

ISBN: 9781723971471

Published in the United States of America

Publication Date: October 1, 2018

Editor: Gail R. Delaney

Cover Artist: Jenifer Ranieri

Cover Art Copyright by FyrRose Productions © 2018

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval and storage system without permission of the publisher.

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Pirating of ebooks is illegal. Criminal Copyright Infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, may be investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of up to $250,000.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used in a fictitious situation. Any resemblances to actual events, locations, organizations, incidents or persons – living or dead – are coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.

Dedication and Acknowledgment

To my long-suffering critique partner and sounding board, Gail Delaney, for all your help and support.

To my best friend, soul mate, and love of my life, who taught me it was okay to reach for my dreams. I miss you every day.

To my professors and instructors, who saw potential in me, and whom I can never thank enough for their expertise and tutelage.

And to my beta reader, Erica Mingle, for her invaluable input in my writing process.

Chapter One

Haitsburg, PA

April 16, 2014 -- 3:00 PM

The engine of the black Camaro idled, powering the windshield wipers as they squealed across the glass. The rain beating down on the hood and roof sounded like a freight train going through, and the gloom of the day settled on the car's occupant, filling him with urgency. He licked his lips nervously as the scent of damp leather and body heat assaulted him, his eyes fixing on the wide gates of the fenced-in compound as people came and went, a series of umbrellas dashing through the wet parking lot. He knew the important ones by name, by sight, knew their histories almost as well as they did. They stood between him and her, and he made it a point to know his obstacles.

He shifted impatiently in his seat. He wanted to drive through those gates, tell her the truth. He couldn't risk being seen yet, with what he planned. It was a surprise. She'd love his surprise. He knew it. She was pure fire, beneath that chilly exterior of hers, and she wanted him. She couldn't hide her feelings from him. They were destined for each other.

Hey, buddy. The muffled voice, as much as the tap on his window, jerked his attention away from the forensic laboratory known as the Bunker. The gate guard bent closer to the window, now, his myopic eyes squinted for a better look as rain slicked over his raincoat.

Damned fool. Much as he'd enjoy snapping the meddling guard's neck, he couldn't afford it. He couldn't risk ruining his surprise. Without response, he put the car into gear and pulled slowly onto the road. There was something to be said for anticipation. He could wait for her to come to him, and then nothing would stand between them. And she would come to him, eventually. It was Fate.

*****

The rain fell in sheets, lashing across the windshield with vicious force. Doctor Faith MacKenzie wiped again at the misty condensation on the windshield's interior and cursed the miserable weather. She could barely see the road through the rain, and each spike of lightning and accompanying roar of thunder nearly blinded and deafened her.

It was raining when her alarm woke her at six this morning. That gentle cascade lifted the fragrance of damp grass and lilac through her open bedroom window, promising a peaceful spring day. However, somewhere along the way it turned violent. It was evening now, shortly after seven, and the pounding storm made her wish she owned a boat rather than her navy blue Chevrolet. After the week she had, she could do without another waterlogged crime scene. Especially one so close to her family.

The ring of her cell phone, currently synched to her car's hands-free system, cut through the hypnotic drone of the windshield wipers and the pelting of rain against the car, startling her. Righting the car's trajectory, she tapped the answer button on her steering wheel.

Doctor MacKenzie.

Hey, girlfriend. It's me. Joyce Lindon's cheerful voice filled the car. How'd the floater go?

Wet. The body's on its way to the Bunker. Faith grimaced at the memory of the swollen, putrefied body of a young woman she just finished dredging out of the Monongahela River when she got the call for the Manor. Let Mark know he needs to go over the body and collect any trace before he puts her in the cooler. Oh, and can you tell Linda I need her to meet me out at the Manor?

She's already out there. As soon as we got the call, she left with her sketchpad. She has fresh SD cards for the cameras, too.

Good. Did you all get any more information on what's going on out at the Manor? All I know, at this point, is that someone discovered a body somewhere on the grounds.

You know as much as we do. Joyce sounded concerned. I was actually calling because I hoped you had more information. You haven't heard from Patrice or Ramsey?

No. And the silence worried her. With the body count racking up, she didn't like knowing this killer had access to her uncle's home. Between the floater and the body she was on her way to collect at the Manor, this made five bodies in the past two weeks, spread over the entire Witch Hollow area. That made more violent deaths in twelve days than she saw in the past six years since she returned to Haitsburg. The varying degrees of decomposition suggests whoever is responsible for these killings isn't new at this.

You still think it's all one person?

The three decedents we already have in the cooler have similar injuries.

Similar?

Enough to indicate from initial examination the possibility of a serial killer. The autopsies will either confirm or destroy my theory. If the body I just recovered and the one at the Manor show consistent injuries, I'll be comfortable calling it confirmed. Twelve days ago, she and her crew unearthed the first skeletal remains. The state of the bones indicated the murder took place years ago -- maybe even decades. She'd checked the National Crime Information Center, but so far she hadn't come up with any other matches. NCIC didn't have anything for us, but I can't rule out the possibility his other victims haven't been found, yet.

His?

Statistically, serial killers are predominantly male. Particularly when the victims are female.

All right. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help. With that Joyce signed off, and Faith tapped the end button and released her breath in a heavy sigh.

As fascinating as the prospect of a serial killer was, from an investigative and profiling standpoint, she knew how bad this was. Cases like Ed Gein and Ray and Faye Copeland were proof enough how dangerous having a serial killer running around in a small town community was. Being a forensic pathologist and profiler wasn't usually the busiest of jobs in a small town like Haitsburg. In fact, probably half the county thought she was crazy. She turned down positions in Philadelphia and New York City to come back to rural Pennsylvania, where she grew up. No one else knew why, or understood her reasoning if they did know. They all thought she was crazy to turn down a glamorous, big city job.

She didn't care. After 9/11, she had nothing left to prove to herself or anyone else. She had more than enough nightmares to last her for the rest of her life. The daily slew of unsolved crimes and psychos big cities saw weren't why she chose her career. That distinction belonged to the few unsolved crimes no one talked about in rural areas like the Hollow.

With dual forensic psychology and medical pathology doctorates, as well as minor degrees in chemistry, forensic science, and criminal justice, Faith was determined to prove any crime could be solved through science. Her maternal uncle, Ramsey Parrish, helped her realize her dream, and she'd be forever in his debt for it. He supplied the capital needed to build and supply the Bunker, her lab and home-away-from-home in a gated compound on five acres outside of town. He set up a fund to keep the Bunker supplied, and her team paid. Ramsey, at least, knew better than to try talking Faith out of an independent forensic team. He saw the value of what she did. Her team frequently worked with law enforcement, and Faith took over the duties of the county coroner when Doctor Jacobs retired.

As the winding drive of what everyone in Witch Hollow called the Manor stretched before her, Faith breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe, by the time she left, the rain would at least have slackened. It was something to hope for. Faith didn't like these types of storms. In fact, if not for the dispatcher's call for her assistance with a body find out here, she wouldn't have come. Ramsey would understand.

Faith eased her vehicle to a stop between Linda's distinctive lime green Honda and the police cruiser, both parked as close to the building as possible. The flashing red, white, and blue lights bouncing off the rain-soaked drive and puddles gave the darkening sky an ominous glow, and Faith's chest tightened with a dread she immediately shrugged off as irrational.

Turning off the engine, she hopped from the car and dashed for the porch, water splashing up around her as she bee lined through the puddles. If this rain didn't let up soon, none of them might be making it back into town. Highland Road Bridge often flooded out in heavy rains, and she didn't relish the nearly fifteen minute trip to get to the state route into town and bypass the bridge.

As she reached the covering of the porch, she was met by her uncle's aging butler and trusted friend, Geoffrey Bannister. Faith cast him a questioning glance as she wrung water from her wet hair and clothes. What's going on, Geoffrey?

Geoffrey regarded her gravely as he held out a towel. Miss Faith, the police officer gave me instructions to let him tell you, but...

Faith froze. Geoffrey was usually very forthcoming when asked a direct question. But what? Where's Ramsey, Geoffrey? What's going on around here?

Doctor MacKenzie. A uniformed officer appeared in the doorway, looking relieved to see her. We haven't disturbed anything.

Great. Now does someone want to tell me what the hell is going on around here?

The victim was found laying on the floor in a locked room. Nothing appears to have been disturbed, and there are no signs of break-in.

Who called us in? Faith pulled on her ever-present medical gloves as she strode own the hallway, escorted by the officer on the scene.

He consulted his notebook. Doctor Lavera. He said he's the family physician.

He is. What's his connection to the victim?

They'd reached Ramsey's office, by now. The officer opened the door and gestured inside. See for yourself.

Faith stepped inside the door and stopped dead as her gaze fell on the body on the floor by the sofa. Ramsey!

But... Wait...

Doctor Lavera pronounced death and started filling out the death certificate. He left the cause of death blank, and told me to call it in. The form's over there, he gestured toward the desk. He said you'd want to do an autopsy.

Which wasn't as much of a suggestion as a request. She blinked dumbly at the officer. His words made logical sense, but they just weren't sinking in. Nothing about the scene registered, yet.

She glanced past the officer, and caught sight of the one person who might help her make sense of what she saw. Geoffrey!

Yes, Miss Faith?

I need to know exactly what happened, prior to the police being called in.

Geoffrey shrugged helplessly. There's not much to tell, Miss Faith. We telephoned Doctor Lavera as soon as we found Ramsey slumped in his chair. The doctor looked him over, moved him to the sofa, and told Patrice to open every window in the office. Doctor Lavera stayed for about two hours, checked Ramsey again, said he thought Ramsey was going to be all right, and left. He told us to ring him should Ramsey take a sudden turn for the worse. When Patrice checked on him, next, he was there on the floor, and he wasn't breathing. She called Doctor Lavera immediately, but by the time the doctor arrived...

That's okay. She touched a hand to his forearm in consolation. You did everything you could, Geoffrey. This isn't your fault.

She turned to the officer in charge of the scene. Has Homicide been notified?

He nodded. Detective Wetherly is on his way.

Good. Faith nodded, and turned back to the crime scene. Never, in her worst nightmares, had she ever imagined she would have to investigate the death of another person she cared about. Drawing a sharp breath, she tucked her feelings away and strode into the room. She had to treat this like any other case. She could fall apart later.

She nodded to Linda, who was busy measuring and sketching the layout of the room and its contents, then moved to crouch beside Ramsey's body, turning on her digital recorder as she did.

Decedent appears to have been moved -- most likely as part of attempts at resuscitation. Initial indications are confusing, as there are no overt signs of trauma. She nudged aside the collar of his shirt. No immediate signs of manual strangulation or indications of suffocation. Double check skin lividity in twenty-four hours. She lifted each eyelid in turn, and frowned. No signs of petechiae typically involved in either liver or drug-involved deaths. She tested his limbs and musculature. Lack of rigor mortis suggests the decedent has been dead less than three hours.

Faith turned her head, and stopped. Sniffing the air, she frowned. Then, leaning closer to the body, she sniffed again. There're indications of a scent on the body. Scent is sharp, bitter-sweet. It is reminiscent of... incense?

She looked up in surprise. This, she didn't see coming. Ramsey was a scientist, and she couldn't think of a single reason for him to have incense burning anywhere in the house. She didn't even know why Ramsey would have it around, but he did work with chemicals on a daily basis in his private lab. Maybe someone else on staff burned it to cover the acrid chemical smell. It was a possibility she couldn't rule out. Then again, neither was the eerie sense of something very familiar about the scent. Not that she gave much credence to unreliable emotional responses like hunches.

Glancing Linda's way, she saw wary confusion on her forensic artist's face. She knew everyone expected her to fall apart. As a psychologist, she knew academically what the stages of grief were. But she also knew everyone handled grief their own way, and she handled hers best by solving cases. She would grieve for Ramsey by finding out how he died and who was responsible. It was her job to determine the cause of death, now that she suspected foul play might be involved. Emotion wouldn't help her with that.

Turning in a circle, she frowned, then looked toward her uncle's primary staff. Geoffrey, Patrice, has anything gone missing recently? Anything showed up without explanation anywhere around the Manor in the past few months?

The two exchanged puzzled glances.

No, Miss Faith, Geoffrey answered at last. Everything's just as always.

You know how much Ramsey disliked change, Patrice pointed out.

Faith nodded as she looked over her uncle's desk and the floor around it, searching for something out of place that might indicate a struggle or other reason for Ramsey's death. Who was in today? Anyone unexpected?

Patrice shook her head. Ramsey's schedule was pretty much empty today. George was in about ten-thirty this morning, and Mr. Patton came by about four this afternoon.

Faith frowned at the mention of George. She and Ramsey's nephew-by-marriage were always at odds, worlds apart. While she had no evidence, she couldn't shake her lack of trust when it came to George. George being back raised immediate red flags. I didn't know George was back in town.

Patrice nodded. He came in by bus from New York last week. He called to say he had something to discuss with Ramsey. It must have been real important, because he and Ramsey had three closed-door meetings this past week, not including today. Ramsey wasn't taking whatever George was saying well, either. He went through three pots of that god-awful coffee of his in an hour the first day. And he was agitated afterward. Then, today, George was whistling when he left, and Ramsey was actually smiling. Ramsey didn't say so directly, but I figure they must have sorted it all out.

Neither George nor Marshall Patton's presence were unusual. Ramsey met with Patton every evening, and with George whenever the younger man was in town. Ramsey and George arguing didn't surprise her, either. They were both stubborn, and a difference of opinion could easily become a battleground with those two. With nothing missing, and no unknown visitors, Faith began to doubt her own hypothesis of murder. Who would want Ramsey dead, anyway? He was extroverted and friendly, and he'd give away his last cent without so much as a grumble. Robbery wasn't an issue, and she didn't know of a single person who spoke poorly of Ramsey. Her gaze fell on his body again and she frowned. Something about this whole thing just didn't feel right. Faith scoffed at the thought even as it crossed her mind. She was a scientist, not a romantic. She built her entire career around facts, not feelings.

Digging her cell phone out of her pocket, she thumbed the speed dial for the Bunker's trace evidence expert.

Trace Evidence.

Mark, it's Faith.

I don't have anything yet. He sounded amused, but distracted. The body just arrived.

I'm not calling about the floater. I need you to bring the van out to the Manor.

There was a pause, then, "There's a body out there?"

Joyce didn't tell you?

She said you were stopping at the Manor on your way back. I assumed you were visiting.

An entirely logical assumption. She only wished it were true. Just get here as soon as you can. And take the State Route. Highland's probably flooded by now.

She heard the muffled sound of a cooler drawer being secured. The sounds of a heavy metal door closing and the latch snapping into place filtered through the phone. On my way.

Faith tucked her phone back into her pocket as she moved to crouch beside the hard-shelled black-and-chrome case sitting just inside the door. Popping the latches, she opened the case to reveal her Nikon, lenses, filters, and SD cards. Selecting her 24mm f/1.4 lens and anti-glare filter, she attached them to the camera, then slipped the first SD card into place.

Dropping the strap around her neck, she set to work photographing the room, to go along with Linda's sketches. Every detail had to be carefully measured and photographed from every angle, and wide shots of the room's layout and evidence locations were taken. The process took the better part of an hour, and her shoulders cramped from enforced stillness, by the end. But she was just getting started.

Flexing her shoulders to ease the cramps, she put aside the camera and began the painstaking chore of dusting every object she could find with black magnetic fingerprint powder. She photographed and lifted every set of prints she found. With meticulous care and a pair of tweezers, she went over Ramsey's clothes, looking for hairs, skin and nail fragments, and anything else that could identify the killer. She would find something. She always found something.

You're sure doing your best to give me a headache, aren't you?

Faith glanced up at the short, stocky woman in fashionable business attire paused in the doorway, her bottle-brown hair a direct contrast to the age lines on her face and the bifocals perched on her nose. Fayette County Prosecutor Eliza Dunmire may look like anyone's grandmother, dressed for a Sunday outing, but she was a top-notch prosecutor and an astute attorney.

Now, Eliza's sharp green gaze took in the scene, and her face wrinkled further in a concerned frown. Well, damn, sweetie. No one said it was Ramsey. You shouldn't even be working this case, you know.

Faith glared at her. "Unless you think it's a conflict of interest, I'm staying on this one. Ramsey's not the only victim, and I am the acting county Coroner."

No one said anything about a multiple...

Not here.

Faith thinks this may be a serial killer, Linda supplied, though her expression was skeptical, as she packed away her sketching supplies.

There's no conclusive evidence, Faith rushed to fill in, but given the recent string of homicides and the similarities--

If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, Eliza broke in with an uplifted hand, it's a duck. So what've you got so far?

Here? Nothing much. We've only just begun processing the scene. Faith gathered up evidence bags and fingerprint tabs, organizing each in proper order in her evidence case. Hopefully, I've got something in here for Mark and Joyce to work with.

And the reason you think this is a serial?

Faith sighed as she glanced out at the pouring rain. There was no help for it. She hated voicing her suspicions before she could prove them, but she'd look crazy if she refused to explain her logic. Ramsey makes victim number five.

I'm still not hearing any evidence the cases are linked, or that we have a serial killer out there.

Three of the five victims have very similar injuries. I haven't had a chance to finish any of the autopsies -- the bodies have been piling up too fast -- but no way they're all random. Haitsburg hasn't had more than three murders over the past sixty years. Five in two weeks? That's a classic killing spree.

Good enough for me. Eliza looked over the scene again. You really think your killer's left something here, like a clue?

Not a clue. Evidence. Faith hefted the case of evidence bags and fingerprint tabs. I've got everything I need here. Between trace evidence and what the bodies will tell me during autopsy, I'll find the killer.

Eliza looked doubtful. How do you figure that? I'm not doubting you, sweetie, but...

Faith's smile felt tight on her lips. She was used to people not understanding her job. Thanks to Hollywood, most people -- including some law enforcement -- had a skewed or incomplete understanding of forensic science as a whole.

No matter how good a criminal is, there's always trace evidence. When you walk out of this room, you'll be leaving behind hair, skin cells, clothing fibers, dust particles, even plant spores, pollen, or particulates that can tell experts like myself and my team you've been here, and where you've been in up to the past twenty-four hours. Now, she headed for the door, plastic evidence case in hand, if you'll excuse me, I need to get this evidence secured.

Faith shook her head as she headed to her car with the case. She loved what she did, and she couldn't imagine doing anything else. She enjoyed working with law enforcement, and knowing she was helping take evil people off the streets. But cases like this one made her wish she could work with someone who actually got what she did, or at least didn't act like it was some mystical power.

At her car, Faith popped the trunk, then punched in her security code on the keypad to the secure storage case she had specially built into the interior of her car's trunk, to hold evidence in secure chain of custody.

With the evidence secure, Faith turned back to the house. Looking up, she lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the rain as her gaze followed the imposing gothic molding on the sprawling Victorian mansion. The dark bricks and slate shingled roof formed an eerie visage against the ominous backdrop of the storm. She barely resisted the urge to shudder. She didn't have time for such ridiculousness. She had a job to do.

Rather than use the front door, Faith detoured around the building to the back door and into Ramsey's lab, looking for anything the killer might have dropped in a hasty exit. Though she knew there was little chance of finding any footprints off the cobblestone walk around the side of the building, she checked anyway. The pristine wetness of both path and yard confirmed her suspicions. However this killer got in and out, he didn't use the back door. Whoever he was, he was sure enough of himself to just walk in and out of the Manor like he belonged there. She didn't like the implication.

She stepped inside Ramsey's personal lab and drew a breath that stank of sulfides and acids. A glance over at his workbench revealed the apparatus was still on, slowly funneling chemicals through lengths and twists of glass tubing. Beside the apparatus was a dried black ring from a cup or mug. She didn't have to test the ring to guess its chemical composition. She sighed. How many times had she warned Ramsey about the danger of drinking his coffee in the lab, where it could become contaminated?

Stubborn old man, she murmured with fond exasperation, and sucked in a sharp breath and squeezed her eyes closed. She wasn't going there. There was no definitive proof ghosts existed. Because the laws of physics supported it, she could accept the survival of human energy -- what some called souls -- after physical death, but merely in the form of electrical energy. There was no empirical scientific evidence to suggest any sentient thought or essence remained after death.

Remembering the subtle whiff of perfume and smoke she smelled around Ramsey's body, Faith moved further into the lab, scanning the labels on the rows of glass jars and canisters lining the shelves. Hydrochloric acid... phosphorus... chlorine... nothing out of the ordinary for a chemist's shelves. Nothing appeared missing either. Whatever the killer used, he or she brought it to the scene, and took it with them.

With a small sigh, she shut down the apparatus and returned to Ramsey's office via the connecting door. Picking up the hand-held evidence vacuum, she went over the carpets and chairs thoroughly. Mark would hunt through the dust and sort out any trace evidence.

Ten minutes later, Faith finally rose from the floor, wiping a loose strand of hair from her face with one arm.

So, when'd he die?

Faith turned toward the door at Eliza's query. By the time I got to him, rigor hadn't yet begun to set in, so I marked the time of death at around six this evening. I can't be more precise until I complete the autopsy. She glanced at her watch, then looked Linda's way as she stripped off one glove to reach into her pocket for her cell phone. Where the hell is Mark with the van?

I'm here. Mark strode into the room just then, pushing a transport gurney and looking more like a drowned rat than her very capable Trace Evidence specialist.

Faith gestured to Ramsey's body. Load him up and get him back to the Bunker. I need to do an autopsy.

Mark's bespectacled gaze went to the body, then back to Faith. Faith, he may have been your uncle, but he was also an old man. Old men die. He could have had a heart attack, or a stroke, or--.

I have reason to believe he was murdered. He was cyanotic when I examined him, she said quietly, her face set grimly. Please, Mark. I have to be sure.

He scratched his head, sighed, and nodded gravely as he moved to help Faith load the body onto the stretcher. All right. You're the boss.

Faith drew a steadying breath as he left, and tried not to think about cutting Ramsey open. She just had to keep reminding herself he was nothing more than another body like so many she saw over the years.

She was just about to gather up her equipment when another voice boomed from the doorway, Did I hear somebody say murder? Doctor MacKenzie, you know better than to use that word without probable cause.

Despite the sorrow lodged in her heart since the discovery of Ramsey's body, a small, wry smile flickered across Faith's face as she looked toward the source of that admonishment. Detective Dale Wetherly had a way of dressing a person down without seeming the least bit threatening. He was also a top-notch investigator, and she was glad to have him here now.

Here, Dale, she forestalled him by holding out the clipboard full of her initial notes. What do you make of this?

Dale scowled as he read. I don't like it, that's what. Only serial killers and complete whackos are this thorough.

Faith eyed him warily. So. You reached the same conclusion I did?

That being?

This wasn't a case of natural death, Dale.

Dale sighed heavily, but nodded. My gut said it wasn't the instant I saw Trebach wheel the body through. But, Faith, this isn't a lot of evidence to run down.

She nodded glumly. I know. It doesn't match the recent string of homicides at all, so far. Those were all young, healthy women.

Serial killers don't usually pick low risk victims like Parrish, Dale agreed with a frown, and shook his head. I think it would be best if we keep this under wraps for a few days, at least. I don't want to tip off the scumbag.

Faith looked at him for a long moment. Her father's old friend was a hard man to read on a normal basis, and she didn't think of this situation as anything remotely like normal. Are you planning to let him get away?

Nope, Dale's scowl never changed. I'm hoping he lets me put a rope around his neck and hang him. If he thinks we don't suspect anything, he may slip up.

Faith nodded, though she knew they were taking a big chance. Whoever did this was more likely to not slip up. If he or she was an idiot, there would be more visible evidence of trauma. Her only chance of finding Ramsey's killer now rested on the one thing Faith believed in with all her heart -- science. As Dale began carefully poking around the room, Faith gathered up her photography kit and left. She'd drop her evidence off at the Bunker tonight, and get her team started on the case first thing in the morning.

Five minutes later, as she opened the driver's side door of her car, Faith stopped, her brow furrowing in consternation. There was an oddly folded red paper on her seat. Had Linda or Mark left her a note when they left? If so, why didn't they just come tell her what they had to say? And why red paper?

Of course, it could be a clue -- a note from a member of the staff too afraid to come forward directly. Except, she found a similar folded page in her mailbox as she was leaving her house, this morning. And the black Camaro she'd seen off and on for the past few years was back, as well. She couldn't help wondering if the valentines and the car were related.

Faith's pulse picked up, but she cautiously put a pair of gloves on before she scooped up the folded page on her seat. She never looked at the note she found in her mailbox. She just dropped it on her desk with the rest of her mail when she arrived at work, before heading out to the first body dump.

Anticipation jolted her as she unfolded the new page, and gasped. It was a cheap Valentine's Day decoration, available from any party supply store. Smoothing out the palm-sized red heart, she turned it over. Glued with painstaking care in its center were what looked like magazine letters. To My Valentine. Faith's pulse quickened. Whether they knew it or not, whoever was leaving these creepy valentines made a mistake in taunting her. She would figure out what was going on.

Chapter Two

Faith sighed as she unlocked her front door, refusing to glance down the street to see if the Camaro was there. She didn't want to know. Not tonight. The weight of the day's exhaustive events pressed down on her, intensifying the hollow ache in her chest as she stepped into the silent house. Tears stung her eyes. Normally, she found peace in the silent emptiness, even if bittersweet memory was its constant companion. Tonight, however, the silence was overwhelming. All she wanted was a shower and a glass of wine.

With mechanical movements, she dropped her purse and keys on the foyer table and headed directly for the staircase. Weary steps carried her up the oak stairs and down the short hall -- straight to a door she hadn't opened in five years.

Opening the door, Faith stood at the threshold, irrationally hesitant to enter. Every object her gaze skimmed renewed a memory she kept safely buried where it could do her no emotional harm. Tears stung her eyes, and her hand trembled on the doorknob, before her knees buckled and she sank to the floor in tears.

Oh, Daddy, what do I do now? Where do I turn? She whispered to the memory, hugging herself as a wave of bitter agony washed through her. She didn't expect an answer, but the pain was like a stake through the soul. The psychologist in her knew this was the logical result of her refusal to deal with her father's death. In five years, she never faced this room, or the death that left it empty. With Ramsey's death looming in recent memory, the empty silence was more than she could bear, and she sat huddled in the doorway, sobbing.

After a time, Faith stood, drained and numb as she closed the door to her father's room. She staggered down the hall