Stolen Daughters (Detective Amanda Steele)

Her partner had a point, but it wasn’t one she liked, and it wasn’t as if they were discussing something of no importance—they were talking about lives. “It’s our jobs to determine what’s going on before the body count increases, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

Nineteen

Amanda looked across the street at the crowd. It didn’t matter how many times she witnessed people gathering in the aftermath of tragedy, it was always unsettling. She scanned everyone’s faces. Some were familiar from the day before, but it was the same street, so the same neighbors. A couple of officers were already making the rounds and speaking with people.

“Trent,” she started, leaning toward him and speaking in a low voice, “without causing much fuss, pull out your phone and take pictures of the crowd.”

He did as she asked without a word.

While he did that, she called Rideout’s cell number. He answered on the second ring. “It’s Detective Steele.” After asking him how he was, out of courtesy, she got to the meat of her call. “Any way to rush the tox panel on Jane Doe from five thirty-two Bill Drive? We might be looking at another victim.”

“Oh. Do you suspect the same killer?”

“Honestly, undecided, but it’s entirely possible.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“All I can ask— Oh, actually, since I have you, are you getting closer to forwarding Doe’s photo to me?” He had said that he should have it to her by the end of today. Hopefully by asking early afternoon she wasn’t pushing too much.

“Should be soon. All I can say. I have sent the DNA sample to the lab and taken the dental impression. I’ll let you know if either one gets us anywhere. Though you know DNA takes forever.”

“I do, but I appreciate whatever you can do.” With that she hung up and found Trent had finished taking pictures and was watching her. “Just called Rideout. He’s going to try and rush the lab on Doe’s tox panel. No photo of her yet. Soon, he says.”

“Some good news.”

A PWC News van pulled up, and Amanda groaned. “And there’s the bad news.”

There was no honor or sanctity in murder—none. The poor victim, in a way, continued to suffer. The person they once were became inventoried as a catalog of parts on the autopsy table while their lives were dissected by investigators and the media.

“Let’s get out of here.” She marched toward the department car. Her hand was on her door handle when the reporter’s words made their way to Amanda’s ears.

“This is Diana Wesson with PWC News. I’m here on location where a woman has been discovered murdered in her home. This comes just one day after the body of a young woman was pulled from a house fire a few doors down. Prince William County Police Department is on scene.”

There was a lull in the reporter’s speaking, and Amanda could sense what was coming. She flung the door open, but the twentysomething, blond reporter wedged herself between Amanda and the car.

“Excuse me. Are you the lead detective on the case? Do you think the incidents are related?” The reporter thrust a microphone in her face.

Amanda pushed the mike aside. She had little tolerance for reporters and journalists—even less when they were in her personal bubble. “No comment.”

“But it is correct? There was a murder?” Her blue eyes were wide and blinking.

With her gaze locked on Diana’s, Amanda flushed with rage. Doe’s killer might want his fifteen minutes of fame, but if this was his work, she wasn’t giving it to him. “You need to leave. And you—” Amanda glared at the cameraman “—need to turn that off. Now.”

“Di?” the cameraman appealed to the reporter.

Diana leveled a glare at Amanda. “You really can’t expect us to leave. This is a breaking news story.”

“A break—” Amanda took a few breaths. “A breaking news story? A woman was murdered.”

“The public has a right to know,” Diana seethed.

“You want a story? You contact the Prince William County Police Department’s Public Information Office. Get your facts in order.” The second Diana Wesson left, Amanda would be calling the supervisor at the PIO and telling him to hold back everything.

Diana stood there for a good thirty seconds before grounding the heel of one of her stilettos into the pavement. “Fine.” She lassoed her arm over her head, a gesture to wrap it up. The cameraman followed her back to the news van.

“Gah, I hate reporters,” Amanda griped and pulled out her phone. Ronald Topez at the PIO answered on the second ring. “You might be hearing from a Diana Wesson with PWC News about the murder at six-oh-two Bill Drive. Don’t give her anything.”

“I don’t have much, so that will be easy.”