Conduit (An Emily Monroe Novel) Read online

  Her phone beeped with a new text message. She snatched her phone off the bedside table and climbed out of bed. The message from Cassie stated that she had no morning appointments and would be in the office around one o’clock. Emily tapped out a simple, Okay, as a text response.

  As Emily headed into the bathroom for a shower, she thought Cassie’s absence this morning would give her an opportunity to start her research on the murders. She wanted to learn details about the victims using news articles, rather than troubling Lionel and Shawn at the station, especially since they would be busy with the autopsy. This afternoon, once she put together some facts about the victims, she would attend Diane Murphy’s memorial service with Cassie.

  It seemed like the worst time to sign an exclusive contract with a client, and Cassie had an appointment this week with Keith at the Heartland Insurance corporate office to review and negotiate terms. Although they would only help the police for the next several days until the FBI arrived, they needed all of their time and resources to work on the murders and their other open cases before diving into ones for Heartland.

  Though she agreed with Cassie on the need to hire an investigator to work the cases Keith would throw their way, Emily stalled on placing the actual ad, still concerned about the possibility of someone finding out her secret. The words of Jake Hanley ran through her mind. He didn’t mean to be condescending when he pointed out she was one of the silent types, but it made her question why she kept her gifts locked up so tight.

  She didn’t want to run around, gushing about her talents to everyone, but maybe she was a little neurotic about secrecy. The idea that victims of a serial killer could be reaching out to her in their final moments, however, made her never want to tell another soul about her gift. She wished it would just disappear so she could have an uneventful, normal life.

  Emily knew she should have disclosed her suspicions to Lionel and Cassie yesterday morning, but something stopped her. The significance of the voices and automatic writings still a mystery, she didn’t want to jump the gun without first confirming a connection to the murders. If she talked about the coincidences, they would become real and justify the fear building inside her. Cassie and Lionel would pull her off the case if they knew, and she would never find out the reason behind these strange happenings. To get answers, she had to work the murders.

  Best not to say anything and alarm Cassie, she decided. If things got too complicated or if she made any kind of discovery about the voices and writings, then she could always talk to Cassie about it and get her opinion on the matter.

  Chapter Eight

  Coffee sloshed around in Lionel’s favorite mug, threatening to spill over onto the blur of kitchen tiles beneath his pacing feet. Barbara stared at him from the breakfast table, her empty plate in front of her.

  He ignored her gaze until her voice cut through his thoughts. “Honey, just sit down with me and have a normal Sunday morning breakfast,” she said. “You have all day to pace by your desk and worry about your case. For now, I want you to fuss over me. When you’re home, you’re mine.”

  Lionel stopped his restless movements and made his way to the table like a robot obeying a new command from his master. Barbara always used those words to get him to stop living his job at home and bring him back to her.

  “When you’re home, you’re mine” was an agreement they made twenty-four years earlier on the night before their wedding. Barbara didn’t hesitate to remind him whenever it seemed he brought the stresses of his work into their home. Lionel appreciated her candidness, and accepted her correcting him in moments like this. His home was his sanctuary away from all the madness of the world, and Barbara ruled both him and their home with nothing but love.

  While he always did his best not to dwell on work at home, this morning he couldn’t help it, and Barbara sensed his struggle. He munched on a crispy bacon strip and his eyes traveled over the face of his always beautiful wife. She appeared much younger than he, with no grey hairs intertwined with her shoulder-length brown strands and only minimal creases around her trusting dark blue eyes.

  Lionel was afraid to open his mouth and talk. He didn’t want any of his manic concerns about the case to emerge in conversation and interrupt the serene morning. Instead, he soaked in her presence as comfort.

  “When we got married,” Barbara said, “I knew what you did for a living. I knew being a cop’s wife wouldn’t be easy. When you made detective, I supported you while knowing that things could be a little harder for you than when you were a beat cop. Then you transferred to homicide and I feared the things you’d see would leave their mark on you. I knew you wouldn’t change, but I also knew you couldn’t do that kind of work without accumulating some scars here and there.”

  He reached for another piece of bacon instead of inserting his thoughts into the conversation. Over the course of their marriage, he knew when she expected him to respond and when she expected him to listen. The congruous way in which they worked together and their accord resulted in very few disagreements.

  “I’m worried about you, Leo.”

  Barbara had a way of cutting to the thick of things, Lionel thought. She would prep her speech with soulful reflection, and just when she lulled him with her words, she would slice him open with reality.

  “I’m worried about me, too.” He didn’t realize the words were coming out until it was too late.

  Looking undeterred, Barbara said, “I’ve seen the news reports. I know these are horrific crimes, but you’ve seen a lot of bad things. You of all people can deal with it, and you have been dealing with it just fine. So what is it about this case that has you so shook up today versus how calm you’ve been the past couple months?”

  Lionel took a quick swallow of sugary coffee. “I think I made a mistake.”

  Barbara’s concerned expression indicated that his statement caught her off-guard. “Leo, you don’t make mistakes.”

  “I asked Cassie and Emily to help out on this case. It’s just for a few days to take a look. Maybe they’ll see something we can’t or find a fresh angle we can work,” he said, before Barbara could chastise him.

  Impatient tapping of her shoe sole came from under the table, a sign of her disapproval. She sat in silence and sipped her coffee, but her rapping shoe spoke for her, and Lionel didn’t like what it had to say.

  “I shouldn’t have done it, but I’m desperate,” he said, holding out hope she would silence her shoe from interrupting the discussion.

  Instead of letting him squirm, he wanted her to voice her displeasure with his decision, but she kept her mouth clamped shut.

  Over-explaining his mistakes to justify them was one of his flaws, but he couldn’t stop talking. “Too many women have died and we’re nowhere close to stopping this guy from doing it again.”

  He paused and waited for his astute wife to speak. When she didn’t, he shifted his elbows to the table, rubbed his hands over his face, and clasped them together in front of his mouth.

  Barbara pushed back her chair and got up from the table, lifting her empty plate. She lowered it next to the table and brushed a few stray toast crumbs onto the plate. A loud sigh followed and she looked at Lionel. “Cassie may be your niece by blood, but I’ve never treated or loved her any less than I would a daughter. Our daughter.”

  The words stung Lionel in a way few could. At the beginning of their marriage, they learned of their inability to conceive a child. They didn’t pursue adoption, convinced that somehow they would naturally become parents, as if they could bend biological defects.

  In the end it wasn’t her body, but his that betrayed their desires for a family. Over the years he learned to not dwell on it, but he still thought of his failure as an unforgivable one. Cassie, his sister Anne’s daughter, filled the childless void in their hearts, but it didn’t lessen their need for a child of their own.

  “And Emily,” Barbara said. “She’s like Cassie’s sister and another daughter for us.”

 
Though upset at his revelation for the moment, later that night in the security of their darkened room, they would exchange apologies, cast aside their down comforter, and share intimacies like newlyweds. Until then, he would suffer stern glances from his lovely wife, though she wouldn’t bring up the topic again after this morning. Their ritual of marriage suited them both, but it was always a long wait until bedtime when they would make things right.

  Even knowing this, Lionel’s need for a scolding overrode his longing to end the conversation. He wanted Barbara to shout at him that she agreed he made a huge mistake so he could suffer through his deserved punishment. He lowered his hands away from his face and they clunked down on the table. “I screwed up.”

  “I think you may have,” Barbara said, without a hint of condescension in her voice. “But you’re desperate, as you said. I don’t believe you would have involved them if you knew of another way.”

  “I definitely wouldn’t have. Shawn even questioned my decision. I should have listened to him and not called them.”

  Barbara blessed him with her small yet powerful smile. “When Detective Edwards dwells on his mistakes, you know he’s truly sorry.”

  With her words, the conversation ended. He reached for the empty bacon plate to clear the table, but Barbara stopped him with a solid glance. “I’d like to help my wife with the dishes if you don’t mind,” he said.

  “In fact, I do mind. You’re going to be late for work. Just go on and let us women take care of the homestead.”

  He kissed her and headed toward the hall table for his car keys and wallet. He’d already done enough damage and wasn’t going to push it by disobeying her direct order.

  Chapter Nine

  The lock picks sank into the deadbolt with ease, and David manipulated them until the lock gave way. He removed the picks and pushed open the door to the one-bedroom apartment Jillian Waters called home. He guided the door shut and to all those outside, there was nothing amiss about the third story abode.

  Jillian lived alone in a cigarette stench-filled apartment near her work. David always avoided conduits who smoked, drank, or used drugs. His experiments led him to the conclusion that those who partook in vices weren’t as strong as others who kept their bodies clean. Much stronger than the other conduits before her, David had to make an exception for Jillian, though she smoked over a pack a day. He also very much desired to kill her.

  She lived without the companionship of a small dog or cat. If she chose between the standard house pets, he suspected her to be a cat person, but he would not be in her home if she had one. Hairs from animals transferred onto clothing easier than other fibers, and he had no intentions of transporting any evidence from her home to his, if he could help it.

  Edmond Locard’s exchange principle, a primary rule in forensic science, stated he would take something with him, such as fibers from her carpet, and he would unknowingly leave something behind. Because of this, he intended to stay off her carpet to reduce the chances of the exchange occurring.

  He had also changed into a brand new pair of shoes before coming inside the apartment building and left his own shoes in the front seat of his car to better avoid leaving a trace of him in her unit. After he had Jillian in the backseat of his car, he would replace the new shoes with his old pair. The new shoes would go into a plastic bag until he disposed of them somewhere far away from both Jillian’s apartment and his farmhouse.

  Even if he did bring a fiber or two into her home by mistake, it wouldn’t cause him great concern. His home had no carpeting and his sedan, the most popular make and model from its year, also had the most popular color interior. If the police ever linked the disappearances of the women to him, the evidence would be circumstantial at best. Though he sometimes assumed himself too careful, his analytical nature had taken him this far and he would not alter his methods.

  Standing in the hallway next to the kitchen, David surveyed Jillian’s apartment. The 735 square foot layout was identical to the one the apartment complex boasted on their website for Floor Plan B. He stepped from the entry hallway onto the linoleum floor of the small kitchen and looked at the living room over the breakfast bar.

  Minimal furnishings decorated the living room. A worn-out green loveseat and generic coffee table both appeared as if she purchased them at either a garage sale or a thrift store. She had a small cathode television set on an aged, wooden television cart. The potted plant in the corner of the room appeared to be the only extravagance in the room.

  David moved from the kitchen into the main hallway, which also consisted of cheap linoleum flooring. To the left was a half-bath and further down the hall were Jillian’s bedroom and the master bathroom. He crept down the hall and peered through the open door of her bedroom, catching a glimpse of her unmade bed.

  Reason overcame his desire to burst into her bedroom and learn more about Jillian, and he ceased his movements just before he stepped onto the carpet. He couldn’t risk picking up fibers or leaving behind a stray impression of the soles of his size twelves.

  Instead of continuing into her bedroom, he pivoted and traced his steps back into the hallway by the front door. There were two hollow wood doors in the hall. With latex gloves secured over his fingers, he gripped the doorknob of the second door. Had he tried opening the first door, closest to the front entrance, he believed he would find the hall closet.

  The other door, as was standard for these apartments, would shield the furnace. David pulled the door open and smiled at his ingenuity. The closet had just enough room for him to stand without touching the furnace. He situated his body in the opening and closed the door.

  David thought out his next movements, re-analyzing the plan for anything that might go wrong. Jillian worked the Sunday morning shift as a barista at the coffee shop two blocks over. During the week, she spent her afternoons at Butler Community College taking classes in business. After she returned home from work on Sundays, she sat at a desk in front of the window facing the street and focused on homework. David had watched her for many hours sitting at that desk during the last two Sunday afternoons.

  When she came home for lunch today, she would walk down the hallway and toss her belongings on the kitchen counter. Her next stop would most likely be the restroom, during which he would emerge from behind the door and wait in the entry hallway. When she moved back into the kitchen to prepare her lunchtime meal, he would use his gun to coax her to leave her apartment with him. She would come with him and get into his car, where he would drug her with a good dose of Ketamine, administered in her neck with an already prepared syringe.

  After she rested in his backseat, he would change his shoes. Several miles down the road, on the way to his house, an alley ran behind a string of businesses. The alley contained several dumpsters for him to throw away the shoes he wore into her apartment. Plenty of homeless frequented those dumpsters, and a brand new pair of shoes would not stay there for long.

  Once he had Jillian safely hidden in the basement of his farmhouse, he would let her sit in her fear until it built to an acceptable level. Later tonight, they would begin the arduous but fulfilling task of contacting Emily.

  David smiled and waited.

  Chapter Ten

  Detective Sergeant Shawn Brandt sat outside the autopsy suite, peering at the drab grey tiles beneath his polished black shoes. The tiles mirrored his sour expression, and Lionel wondered if the tiles turned Shawn’s mood bitter or if he caused the tiles to turn grey. Though Shawn had an increasing amount of good moments as time moved forth, his face still revealed his overall displeasure with life and his now ex-wife’s affair.

  As he had time and again, Lionel thanked God for Barbara. Shawn needed a Barbara in his life, but women like her were a rarity. It would be a long road for Shawn on his search for one, should he ever learn to trust women again.

  Lionel sat in an uncomfortable padded chair next to Shawn and leaned back. “Another beautiful day in the neighborhood,” he said.

 
“You’re late,” Shawn said. “Perry’s almost done. He’s mad enough that he has to do an autopsy on a Sunday.”

  Lionel’s conscience compelled him to offer an excuse for his tardiness. “Barbara was berating me.”

  Shawn glanced up at him for the first time, the sourness in his face replaced by curiosity. “Barbara berating you? That somehow doesn’t sound right.”

  “Well, maybe not berating, but she could have started at any second so I had to get out of there.”

  Shawn laughed, one of his good moments in life. “Now I really don’t believe you. What was this alleged berating about?”

  “Involving Cassie and Emily in this investigation.”

  “That would have made sense had you said that from the start. You shouldn’t have involved them in something so nasty.”

  Lionel picked up on the concern in Shawn’s voice. “Homicide isn’t pleasant business, I admit, but I do think they can help.”

  “How so?”

  “They’re going to the memorial service for Diane Murphy this afternoon.”

  “Good angle to work. Cassie has a way with people.” A small smile played on his lips. “She’ll probably have family and friends spilling all their secrets by the end of the service.”

  “I just hope one of those secrets is something we can run with. Otherwise we’re going to spend more days in this hallway.”

  “If he’s done with his message, do you think it’s possible he’ll stop killing?”

  Lionel scooted forward in the chair and leaned his elbows on his knees. “He’s told us that he wants us to hear something, but we don’t know what it is. Until we learn that, he won’t stop killing.”

  “He’s a determined one. Messing up my golf game, too, with all this overtime I have to work.”

  Lionel glanced sideways at Shawn. “You don’t play golf.”

  “I thought about it. Bought some clubs last week. They’re sitting in the trunk still, begging to be used.” He stood up, stretched his arms over his head, and leaned to his side. “I’m just glad you got us out of viewing this autopsy.”