Deep lines formed on the sheriff’s face as he read through the files. “Oh, yeah, I remember this one. Nasty case.” He turned the file so Garrison could read.
“Happened at a university sorority house.”
The first image Garrison saw in the file was the charred structure, reduced to rubble and scorched timbers. It was a miracle anyone had survived. “This the sorority house?”
The sheriff leaned over. “It was.”
“My father is retired Alexandria PD. He said the girl killed her rapist.”
The sheriff nodded. “That rape was never proven.”
Garrison turned the picture over and studied another image of the burned-out Victorian house. “What about the killing?”
“From what we could piece together, she hit him with an iron poker by the fireplace. Caved his skull right in and then she passed out from her injuries. Firefighters arrived in time to drag her and the boy out. Of course, the crew quickly figured out the boy was dead.”
Garrison flipped through the fire scene photos. “And he did attack her?”
“That’s what she said.”
“What did the medical examination reveal?”
“That Josiah Cross’s semen was present in her and bruising suggested the sex was rough.”
“Rough and not forced?”
“His family claimed that the two had had a sexual relationship and that she enjoyed vigorous sex.” The sheriff shook his head.
“What was your assessment of the case?”
“I was just a brand-new deputy then. But I can’t imagine any girl wanting what she got. He roughed her up pretty well. She had bruising on her face and arms and, of course, the burn.”
Garrison glanced up. “My father said he branded her. ”
The sheriff leaned forward and flipped through several photos until he arrived at a close-up of the burn on the girl’s shoulder. A red angry star glared back from pale ivory skin.
That was the work of a sick bastard. “Josiah Cross did this?”
“That’s what the girl claimed. Defense said the house fire must have heated up the star and when she fell it burned her skin.”
“This the first trouble you had with Cross?” It had been his experience that warning signs preceded this kind of violence.
“No, this wasn’t the first. Young Mr. Cross had drunk driving charges filed against him and a waitress in the historic district complained he assaulted her.”
“What came of it?”
“His daddy got involved. All charges were dropped.”
“Really?”
“You’d have to have lived under a rock not to know that Darius Cross was rich and always would swoop in with attorneys and clean up the mess, but that didn’t mean any of us forgot the messes that boy created.” The sheriff leaned back in his chair and folded his fingers over his belly. “His daddy had a farm near town. When Cross was twelve, he shot seven head of cattle at point-blank range. Just walked up to them and killed them for no other reason than to kill. The farmer caught the boy and called us. But Josiah’s father ended up paying off the farmer twice what the cattle were worth. ”
“Great kid,” Malcolm said.
“It didn’t end there. As he got older he picked fights with other kids. Cross was a big kid for his age so he overpowered most anyone in his age group. He beat one boy bad enough to land him in the hospital. Again, Daddy paid. Darius Cross paid for that victim’s college education. And then the waitress, like I said. She ended up with a brand-new car and quit her job. Some said she moved to New York. After that, Cross stayed clear of town.”
“What about the girl that killed him?”
“From a poor family and going to Price University on a full scholarship. Apparently, she was as smart as a whip.”
“What else can you tell me about her?”
The sheriff lifted a brow. “I’ve done a good bit of telling. Now you mind telling me why you are so interested in this old case?”
“I’ve a murder victim. Female. Branded with a four-pointed star.”
The sheriff frowned. “I see.”
“I’d like to talk to this girl. There might be no connection, but the more I stare at this picture of her brand, the more I’m not so sure. They look too much alike.”
“I have no way of knowing what happened to the girl. As your daddy might have told you, she confessed to killing Cross and was sent to jail for ten years. She’s got to be about twenty-seven by now. ”
“Can you tell me her name?”
“Don’t see how this connects.”
“It’s a lead I don’t want to ignore.” He smiled, wanting the sheriff to work with him, not against him. “I’ve got to try.”
The sheriff shrugged and glanced at the file. He dug through the records, selected a photo and then handed it to Garrison. “Here’s her mug shot. Looks like she’s not more than twelve but she was almost eighteen when this happened.”
Garrison took the picture and froze.
There was no mistaking the woman’s identity. The eyes were different, harder, more guarded, but ten years had not changed her that much. “Eva Rayburn.”
Kelly hated her early-morning jog. Yeah, she’d heard all the tripe about it setting the tone for your day and how it revved your metabolism, but that didn’t change the fact that she hated it. Given half a chance, she’d have been at home, sitting in bed, doughnut and coffee in hand and watching the morning news like a civilized person.
But, no, she was out here on the WD&O jogging trail, dragging her fat ass along the river. Why? Because of that guy Leonard in accounting and the little black dress she wanted to wear on their date next week. All she needed to do was shed a couple of pounds and she’d be able to pull up the damn zipper.
Her lungs burned and her knees ached. “Shit.” The word came out in a whoosh as she slowed her pace from a weak jog to a walk. “There has just got to be a better way.”
She rested her hand on her hip, trying to ease the stitch in her side. She glanced ahead to the park bench a quarter of a mile away. “Jog to the bench and you can stop.”
After a couple of false starts she sped from her walk to a jog. Her knees ached and groaned but stopping now only made restarting all the more painful. If she stumbled to the bench alive, she’d swear off the sweets for at least a month. Well, maybe a week.
Dropping her head, she pumped her arms, kept moving and chanted, “Little black dress. Little black dress.”
When she reached the bench, she shoved out a sigh of relief and promptly sat down. She dropped her head between her knees and sucked in a breath.
She regretted the breath instantly. The air she pulled in wasn’t sweet or restorative. It was foul and pungent and reminded her of the time a squirrel had gotten into her home’s air ducts and died. Her whole house had reeked of death.
Death.
Kelly shot to her feet and glanced around her. Something had died around the bench. Damn.
She started to inch away. The last thing she wanted was to find a dead dog or raccoon or worse, a dead skunk. She heard dead skunks could still stink you up. Just her luck that she’d finally fit into that little black dress and smell of dead skunk.
Kelly continued down the path just two steps when she spotted the flicker of pink fabric in the brush by the river. Halting, she took a cautious step toward the fabric. The closer she got, the stronger the smell. She shouldn’t look but curiosity goaded her. Co
vering her mouth, she peered down and nearly wretched.
The river reeds and grass tangled around a woman’s body, which lay curled in a C-shape, face buried in the water.
Kelly backed up, unsure if she should scream or get sick.
She threw up.
Garrison’s mind pondered the puzzle of Eva Rayburn as he and Malcolm drove to the office. He wound down I-495 and took the Telegraph Road exit and headed toward police headquarters on Mill Street. He was anxious to visit King’s.
“It can’t be a coincidence,” Malcolm said. “The star in that old case and then the girl turns up branded at the scene of a fire along with Ms. Rayburn.”
“Yeah, I stopped believing in coincidence a very long time ago.”
“What the hell kind of connection does our victim share with a dead rich-kid-rapist and the girl who killed him?”
“A little digging will turn up something.”
Garrison and Malcolm had been five minutes from their office when they got a call from the medical examiner’s office. Dr. Henson had toxicology results on the first victim.
Garrison detoured to the medical examiner’s office and the detectives found Dr. Henson in her office. She was on the phone but waved them in and pointed to chairs in front of her desk.
“Yes, sir,” Dr. Henson said into the phone. “His death would have been very peaceful.” The softness in her voice conveyed genuine concern.
Garrison presumed she was talking to a family member. Known for taking her time with grieving family members, Dr. Henson patiently answered each question.
Finally, she hung up the phone.
She pulled off her glasses and squeezed the bridge of her nose.
“Bad case?”
She nodded. “Brain aneurysm. The guy just turned thirty-nine. He’d been on a ladder and fell. Family and responding EMTs thought the fall killed him. Autopsy revealed the vessel burst first and then he’d fallen. He was dead before he hit the ground.”
“That’s rough,” Malcolm said.
“Leaves behind a wife and two young kids.” She picked up some papers and tapped them into a neat stack. “Some days I hate this job.”