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The instant Turner had opened his front door, his expression had shifted from mild curiosity to pain. The man had understood immediately why Nevada was there.
Tobi Turner hadn’t been Nevada’s first death notification, but as the old man had wept, he’d felt gutted and angry and prayed he could find the girl’s killer.
“Sheriff, can you hold the plaque a little higher?” the student photographer asked.
“Of course.” Nevada couldn’t remember the last time he’d been around kids who weren’t abused, beaten, or dead.
As the kid took a dozen more pictures, Nevada kept smiling. He wanted this dog-and-pony show over.
When the group finally broke up, he grabbed his gear, ready to change and get back to working the Turner case. The board of supervisor’s chairman, Sam Roche, cut off his exit. Sam was a retired university professor who’d settled in Deep Run and had been on the board five years.
“Sheriff Nevada, how’s your investigation going?” Sam asked.
“It’s progressing.”
Sam frowned and dropped his voice a notch. “The board is concerned about this case. The optics aren’t good. Who’s going to send their son or daughter to the local university or relocate a business in Deep Run if we can’t promise law and order?”
“Deputy Brooke Bennett and I have been in constant contact with the forensic lab in Roanoke, and I’ve also reached out to the FBI’s profiling team.”
“FBI?” Sam asked.
“If you want this case solved quickly, then we can’t ignore the truth. We had a serial offender who operated in this area in 2004.”
“What’re the chances that this person is still here?” Sam asked.
“I have no way of knowing,” Nevada replied. “I’m still trying to determine if we’ve identified all his victims.”
Sam held up a hand. “There could be more?”
The naive question would have been amusing if this weren’t so damn serious. “Not all women who are raped report the crime. Yes, there could be more.”
Sam rubbed a hand over his thinning gray hair. “The media is calling me for a comment. I’m not sure what to say.”
“I strongly advise you to not speak to them,” Nevada said. “The FBI agent will be here in a few hours, and she and I will coordinate communications to the public.”
“What about Greene?”
“What about him?” Nevada was still pissed about Greene’s inaction on the DNA kits. If the lazy, dumb son of a bitch had made an attempt to solve the rapes in the summer of ’04, he might have saved Tobi Turner’s life.
“I don’t want the FBI taking over the case,” Sam said. “I don’t need the world thinking we can’t manage our own problems.”
“The bureau doesn’t take over.” He’d never taken credit for the cases he’d solved. Instead, he’d always stood off to the side when local law enforcement had made an announcement to the media. Now Nevada was the local guy and was on the receiving end of the FBI’s help.
“Just stay on top of this.”
He would swallow every last bit of his pride and accept whatever help was offered to catch this killer. He owed that much to Tobi Turner and the rape victims. “I will.”
“You’ve chased killers like this before?” Sam asked.
“Too many.”
©2019 Mary Burton
Nevada sat at the desk in his home office and turned on his computer. As he waited for it to boot up, his thoughts turned to Special Agent Macy Crow. He respected the hell out of her because she was one of the best.
But when he thought about Macy, the most primitive neurons of his limbic system demanded sex. A few times when she hadn’t been looking, he had glanced at her breasts, her lips, and the curve of her hips. She’d dropped weight and muscle tone, but as far as he was concerned, she was still hot as hell.
When he had arrived back at his grandfather’s farm, he had taken a hot shower and changed into clean jeans, a blue pullover that read SHERIFF over the left pocket, and his steel-tipped boots. As the coffee had brewed, he had attached his gun and badge to his belt.
At his computer, he searched the case he’d worked with Macy in Kansas City. A few photos featured the two of them standing side by side in the background as the local police chief spoke at the podium. He remembered that day and the sex they had shared that evening.
Shifting the Internet search to Macy, he pulled up familiar pictures. The first image caught her descending a long set of marble stairs in a Virginia courthouse. She was wearing a poker face, but the wind caught her long blond hair and it gleamed in the light. She wore heeled boots, not the black, thick-soled boots she now favored. That image vibrated with a youthful sense of invincibility . . .
Nevada checked his watch. Realizing time was getting away from him, he finished his coffee and got in his car. At eight a.m., he pulled up in front of Macy’s motel room. She came out seconds later and slid into the front seat.
©2019 Mary Burton
Macy gathered her belongings and, thanks to too much coffee, excused herself to the restroom before she reappeared to find Nevada waiting by the front door. She nodded to Deputy Sullivan on the way out and followed Nevada to his older black SUV.
She set her backpack on the back seat, dug out her yellow legal pad and a pen, and then slid into the passenger seat. The interior of the car was neat, and his supplies were carefully stored in bins in the back. Unlike in her vehicle, there were no stray french fries or candy bar wrappers on the floor.
Behind the wheel, Nevada slid on sunglasses and started the engine. A glance in his rearview mirror, and he began to back out. He reached for the radio, turning on a country western station. She played music constantly, but her choices tended toward loud, rude rock music.
He turned right and then made a quick left onto the interstate. “The Oswald house exit is ten miles north.”
“Did you get back to Deep Run often when you were with the bureau?” she asked.
“I visited when I could, but you know how the job is. I was lucky to get a break once a year.”
“Sounds familiar,” she said.
“Did you get to see your folks much?”
“After my mother passed, I never returned to Alexandria until the bureau sent me back. Visits to see Pop in Texas were rare.”
“I remember your father calling you in Kansas City.”
“He called more that last year than he ever had. Must have known the end was close.”
“And he never told you about your birth mother?” Nevada asked.
“Only in a message from the grave.”
“Why not?”
“My birth father, the monster, was still alive. I think Pop was afraid for me. The man who raped my birth mother had money and power.”
“Your father thought this man would retaliate against you?”
“I suppose so.”
“He was trying to protect you,” Nevada said.
“In his way, yes.”
Once they were a couple of miles north of Deep Run, the interstate skimmed through open farmland dotted with billboards. “Do you still have your place in DC?” Macy asked.
“I do,” Nevada said. “But I’ve spent less than a handful of nights in the DC place during the last three years.”
They passed a rolling pasture with a herd of cows grazing beside a red barn. Macy had lived in slower-paced communities during her career, but preferred the larger cities so full of much-needed distractions. “And you really like it here?”
“It’s growing on me.” He shrugged. “I’ve been sleeping in the same bed for the past five months straight and recognizing everyone I pass on the street.”
“And here I am busting my ass to get back in the fray.”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
“Don’t be too quick to judge. I’m still not convinced you’ll stay here in Mayberry after this case is solved. You were one of the best.”
“I could have worked Ellis’s case without leaving the bureau. I left for several reasons. Like an old FBI agent once told me, you got to know when to fold.”
She dropped her head back against the headrest. “Jesus, Nevada, now you’re quoting country western songs.”
He laughed. “I didn’t die, Macy. I’ve shifted gears.”
“To what, reverse?”
“To a path that doesn’t always lead into darkness.”
As they approached the upcoming exit, he slowed and took the westward route along a four-lane road that quickly narrowed to two. They passed more fields dotted with farmhouses, cows, and lots of nothingness. It was too damn far from civilization.
Nevada and Macy had been running in opposite directions since they had met.
©2019 Mary Burton
©2019 Mary Burton
The man grew silent for a moment as his shoulders stiffened. Reality had chased away the pleasant last moments. Neither Macy nor Nevada spoke. Each knew the man needed to tell his story in his own time.
Turner cleared his throat. “Tobi had only been driving on her own for six months, and we got worried when she drove off by herself.” He shook his head. “But there comes a time when you have to let them grow up, right?”
“Tobi never made it to the high school, did she?” Macy asked.
“The cops found our van at a parking lot a mile from the school. Sheriff Greene interviewed all the kids at the study session, but they said Tobi never came into the school.”
“Was she dating anyone at the time?” Macy asked.
“She’d gone out a few times with a kid from the debate team, but he’d been in Ohio at a math competition when she went missing. The cops cleared him right away.”
“Are you sure there wasn’t anyone else?” Macy pressed.
“I’ve been asked that question a lot. And the answer is always no. Tobi was focused on school, not boys.”
Macy knew young girls could and did hide many things from their parents. “When did you know something was wrong?”
“We had given her an eleven p.m. curfew. At half past eleven, I called her friend Jenna Newsome,” he said. “They were close that last year.”
“And what did Jenna say?”
“She said she didn’t know anything,” Turner said. “Jenna still lives in town, but I don’t know the exact address.”
“Was there anyone else close with Tobi?” Macy asked.
“She was friendly with the kids in the band. But she didn’t have much time for socializing. Are you going to talk to Jenna?” he asked.
“I am.”
“Okay, you speak to Jenna, then what?” Turner demanded. “It’s been fifteen years, and the cops came up with nothing. My girl was only found by accident.”
Macy sidestepped the comment. “When did you call Mr. Greene?”
“It was past midnight.” He shook his head. “I should have called the sheriff five minutes after eleven. It wasn’t at all like Tobi to be late, but my wife said to give her a little more time.”
“And did the sheriff launch a search?”
“The sheriff didn’t sound worried, and I remember I lost my temper. He said he’d look into it.”
©2019 Mary Burton