A Cold Dark Place

Chapter Thirty

Sunday, 9:45 EM., Seattle

"Doing some clandestine research on the case?" Christopher asked as they entered Emily's hotel room. She nodded in the direction of the stolen stacks of hospital records she'd laser printed off David's office computer.

"And, no, I didn't have a warrant," she said.

"I didn't log this baby into evidence yet, either," Christopher said, setting the photo album on the corner of the bed. "Nice place," he said. "They must have big expense accounts in Cherrystone" He surveyed the plush surroundings, deep coppery hues on the pillow-overloaded bed, a gas fireplace, an oil painting that appeared to be original not a massproduced phony like most places have. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The Olympic Mountains off in the distance were nearly indigo and the city lights of Seattle twinkled in the foreground. "My place is right over there"

Emily stood next to him, feeling the effects of too much Chardonnay. "Where?"

He pointed to his condo, but when she didn't spot it, he reached over and turned her head just a touch. "There."

The moment begged for double entendres along the lines of I'll show you mine, if you show me yours-evidence, that is. But both parties resisted. There was too much at stake just then, and the teasing near-romance of their friendship was years ago.

The message feature on her cell phone pulsed and Emily took the cue to break away from Christopher and the window. She dialed and learned that David and Olga had phoned. She'd call both of them back after Christopher showed her whatever it was that he'd brought to dinner.

Christopher took the opportunity to dial in for an update on the Jeffries case. His face was stone. No smile. None of the charm that he'd shown during dinner. Whatever he was hearing, it was unpleasant and dark. When he ended the call, he told her that he'd been talking with the medical examiner's assistant about the Jeffries murder.

"Overkill, for sure," he said. "I guess even a rookie could tell that by the scene. Jesus, talk about blood-soaked. ME says that Bonnie Jeffries was beaten and stabbed. Either could have killed her. She was hit with a hammer or something like that-tool marks on her skull are being reviewed now. Looks like at least a half dozen times. She was stabbed with a serrated blade probably thirty-five times."

The possible circumstances of her last breaths were more than bone chilling. They were arctic.

"She had a big set of knives in the kitchen," Emily said. "I have the same set"

He nodded. "Right. I saw them. Not yours. Hers"

"I got that"

"The ME says she was probably out cold when she was stabbed. Not a single defensive wound"

"But she bled out, so she was still alive when the killer stabbed her," Emily said.

"Sliced and diced is more like it. The ME says that who ever killed her was driven by rage and contempt. Hatred to the nth degree. He drove that knife into her no more than a half inch, as if he wanted to tease her to death"

"Or enjoy it. Make it linger."

"Yeah. We know the type. Some twisted psycho who gets off on torture."

"Any trace? Anything at all to tag her assailant?"

"Assailants, with an S. Had to be at least two. She's a big girl as they say. ME says she was first hit in the kitchen, then finished off in the bedroom. Posed there"

The brutality of the attack made her sick. Emily studied the skyline, searching for words and trying to find some kind of calmness in the moment. The idea that there were two assailants was like an ice down her spine. Nick and.Ienna? Not possible. But they had been there. Her mind was racing, but she fought to stay cool. She had no choice.

"Anything on tox?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Clean"

That surprised her somewhat and she turned to look at Christopher. She remembered seeing a bottle of vodka on the kitchen counter and an array of pills. She d expected something.

"Whoever killed her caught her unaware. She didn't see it coming," she finally said. Her mind transported her back to the gruesome scene. She'd been in the bedroom only a minute, but the images of what she'd seen would never fade. Foil held the room dark. The radio played. The sheets-cheerful daisies were the print-were colored in ropes and slashes of blood. Bonnie was in a pale blue nightgown.

"She was facedown on the bed," she said. "Hit from behind?"

"Maybe, but she was stabbed in the chest and the back. He or they moved her around on that bed a bit."

Christopher picked up the black album. "This is from Bonnie's place. We found it wedged behind the desk. I don't know if it was hidden there, or if it just fell." He indicated a wingback chair he scooted next to the bed where he'd taken a seat. "Sit here. There's some weird stuff in this book"

Suddenly the Macy's bag of hospital records seemed irrelevant.

Emily edged the chair closer to Christopher, who'd opened the book with his eyes fixed on hers, gauging her reaction. It was a compendium of news articles, neatly cut and pasted on black sheets of construction paper. Whoever had set up the book, clearly did so carefully. There wasn't a crooked edge or scissor slip. The headline on the opening page was unfamiliar to her.

MISSING ONE WEEK: WHERE IS BRIT?

Now holding the book across her lap, Emily scanned the yellowed, brittle clipping. It was an article about Brit Osterman, a twelve-year-old girl who'd gone missing on her way home from school in her cozy Seattle neighborhood.

"What's this?" she asked.

Christopher just looked at her and shook his head. "Read on. And like I said, be prepared. I think there's something here"

The article on the first page was followed by one with a picture of an adorable girl with cat-eye glasses and a nose splashed with freckles. She had not been found. Her parents were quoted as saying they'd "never give up ... until our little girl is home safe and sound"

Another item recounted how the girl was never found.

FIVE YEARS AGO, LITTLE GIRL VANISHED

Emily looked up at Christopher. Her mind was racing for a connection. "Bonnie?"

"Oh God no," he answered flatly. "Not at all. Flip to the next one."

The headline on the next page was an absolute screamer. The letters were at least two inches tall, centered smack under the masthead of the Nampa, Idaho, Daily Express. The words were utterly heartbreaking. Emily touched her lips, as if doing so would stop her from tears as she read.

STEFFI MILLER'S MOTHER: WHY DID GOD ALLOW THIS?

The article was about the disappearance of a teenage girl from a religious camp on a lake near Nampa. A couple of campers were quoted about how much Steffi had enjoyed canoeing and theorized that perhaps she'd suffered a fatal accident. But the reporter pretty much put that to bed with a quote from the ever-PR-minded camp director: "If she took a spill in the lake, she did it without a canoe. All of our canoes and skiffs are accounted for. We just don't know where she went" A photograph of a half dozen boys and girls sitting around a campfire had been the interest of at least one person. In red pencil, someone wrote: "Me" with an arrow pointing to the back of one of the boy's heads.

Emily met Christopher's knowing stare. He half smiled in that way cops do when something really devious is about to be sprung on an unsuspecting partner. Emily felt like a partner, back in the old days ... and right then, too.

"Are you having fun yet?" he asked.

"Actually, I'm not" She frowned, knowing that he knew more and was holding out on her. "You know how I hate it when anyone withholds information."

"I remember," he said. "Oh yeah, I remember. The Miller case was never solved. No body ever found. Turn the page"

There were additional clippings. These featured a Seattle woman named Tanya Sutter. The name seemed somewhat familiar to Emily, but she couldn't quite place it. According to the news articles and there were four pages of them-Tanya's body was discovered by a roadside cleanup crew one week after her disappearance. She was swathed in a plastic wrapping and dumped near an off-ramp outside of Tacoma.

The light went on. Emily pointed a slender finger at Tanya's photo. "Didn't they tag Dylan Walker for this one?"

"Bingo."

She scanned the articles and was reminded about Olga Cerrino and how she'd told her that the plastic wrapping had been a signature of Walker's. Since the other victims' bodies were never recovered, no one could say for sure if they'd been murdered, how the killer had done it, or if Walker had indeed been the killer. The bodies were the missing evidence.

"Are Shelley Marie Smith and Lorrie Ann Warner in here?" she asked.

"Yup. But that's not why I brought this to you"

Emily looked at him, puzzled. She started flipping toward the back of the book.

"Stop! Back up," he said. "You know better than to read the back of a book first"

Startled by his initial command, Emily missed the playful sarcasm of his last words. She started going backward, page by page; the headlines replayed the story of the Meridian murders from conviction to the discovery of the bodies. It was like a videotape on rewind. Pictures of Dylan Walker looking snarky and charming, handsome and devious. The high school photos of the victims showed them in all their youthful glory. Long hair. Braces. Wide smiles. Hand-wringing headlines covered every aspect of the story. An image of Olga Morris-Cerrino caught her eye and Emily lingered on the photo. She was so lovely then. So young. So unaware that shed marry and be a widow before fifty-five. Emily started flipping the pages once more.

"There," Christopher said. "Right there."

She stopped. The black pages framed four news clippings. Emily put her hand to her chest. Her eyes were fastened to the pages in utter horror. She felt the air rush out of the room. She could barely breathe. The photos and words were so familiar, but the context of the book that someone had created was all wrong.

"What in the world?" she finally said. Her eyes glistened with the beginning of tears. "Chris?"

He leaned closer to her and put his hand on her knee.

"I know. I thought the same thing."

Emily started to cry. It was more than she could take in. "You know what this could mean?"

"I know and I'm sorry. But it might be wrong, a hoax. A mistake. Maybe wishful thinking on the part of Bonnie Jeffries. Maybe she wanted Walker to be responsible for every unsolved murder case"

Emily swallowed hard. It was quick gulp for air. She looked once more at the headlines. They were knives stabbing at her eyes, but she couldn't turn away.

GIRL ABDUCTED FROM RESTAURANT

Search Continues For Kristi Cooper

COP KILLS KIDNAPPER

Girl Still Missing

BOY, 12, FINDS MISSING GIRL'S BODY

The last article brought a torrent of memories. None of which had ever been anywhere but just beneath the surface. The slightest scratch, a twitch, the wrong word brought her back to the autumn of Kristi's discovery. With Christopher holding her close, Emily spun her way back to that day.

In every way, Christopher Collier was there, too.

The vine maples were on fire, colors so deep red and bright orange they looked like some set decorator's fantasy of what autumn should look like in a 1950s movie musical. All that had transpired was indelible, a memory tattoo.

Two Bentonville, Washington, boys with a new BB gun worked their way through a trail as they searched for squirrels and birds to shoot. The older of the two, Tyler Preston, was fourteen and the gun was a birthday present from his father. The other boy was twelve-year-old Mason Davidson.

"When am I going to get to shoot?" Mason asked for what must have been the tenth time.

"Not very patient, are you? I guess you can have a turn," Tyler said, finally handing over the BB gun. "You know how to shoot? See that robin over there?" He jabbed his finger at a bird about twenty-five yards away, a close enough target for him to hit, but not for the younger boy.

"Yeah"

"Watch this." Mason aimed, fired, and to Tyler Preston's sheer amazement, the robin fell from the branch. He looked over at his buddy with a gleeful smile and handed back the rifle.

"That's how it's done, bud!"

He ran to get the fallen bird. Tyler looked down at the shiny barrel of the BB gun and shook his head. Beginner's luck. He heard a noise and looked up, but Mason was nowhere to be seen.

"Mason?" he called. "Where are you, bro?"

A faint cry came from twenty yards away. "In here!"

Tyler set the gun down and ran. He ran to what appeared to be a big hole in the ground. A well? A sinkhole? He leaned over to get a better look.

"Tyler! Get me out of here!" Mason didn't sound hurt, but he sounded scared spitless.

"Hold on, dude!" Tyler looked for a branch or something he could use to extricate his buddy from the darkness below. "Hang on!"

"Get me out of here! Tyler!"

As his eyes adjusted to the dim and dank surroundings, Mason's terror escalated. He was unsure of what he saw at first. Was it real? Was it a joke? He moved closer and gasped.

"There's a bed down here and some other stuff. Hey, I think there's a dead body down here"

"No shit?"

"Yeah, there are bones," he said, cupping his hands to amplify his voice in the darkness. The makeshift covering of rotting boards shoved aside, a stream of light found its way to the floor of the twelve-foot-deep hole. "There's blond hair, too!"

"Whoa! Cool!"

"You wouldn't think so if you were stuck down here. Come on!"

Mason Davidson didn't know it right then, of course, but he'd solved a mystery that had haunted the Pacific Northwest for two years.

He'd found Kristi Cooper.

Sunday, 11:00 Pm

In the same red pencil Emily noticed that someone had underlined Reynard Tuttle's name in an article that detailed how Emily had shot him in the ill-fated raid on the cabin. There was also an annotation. The words were tiny and in grammar school perfect script: Poor Dope.

Emily found her footing and spoke. "I don't know what to say."

"I don't know what any of these means," Christopher said, releasing his slight embrace. "And you know how much I hate to admit that"

"I'll never forget the day those boys found her"

"I know. Whenever I see fall colors, I think of her, too"

"Whoever wrote in this book-Bonnie, I guess-wants us to think that Tuttle wasn't Kristi's captor."

"But he was," Christopher insisted.

Emily had always had her doubts. It was something she never spoke about to anyone, not David, not Christopher. It was the small voice she'd heard in the back of her head whenever she thought of Kristi and how she died. The voice she heard was never answered out loud. To do so, would bring home what she'd done.

"As far as we knew," she said. "I mean, there was nothing that tied him to the body, once we found her. No trace. No DNA"

His eyes were penetrating. "We can't second-guess what we did now."

"But you've brought this to me for a reason. You think there's something there"

"There's a link between Bonnie and Walker."

"She was his number-one fan," Emily said. "I talked with her girlfriend, Tina Esposito. She said she and Bonnie were best friends and had a major falling-out over Walker. Bonnie basically stole Walker from Tina. God knows why. They hadn't spoken in years"

This clearly interested Christopher. "Fighting over a serial killer?"

"You could put it that way. It wasn't that he was a serial killer. They believed he wasn't. Both of them. In fact, there was a legion of Bonnies and Tinas out there that lined up to see Walker during and after the trial."

He let out a sigh. "Another prison groupie, Jesus. What's with these women?"

Emily narrowed her gaze. "It isn't simple. I fought over a two-timer," she said, letting her guard down a little. "I lost. Some women love a guy they can't have" Emily looked over to the minibar. Another drink was against her better judgment, but the memories of Kristi Cooper and the possibility that she actually hadn't shot her captor called for something to thwart her creeping doubt. She opened the minibar.

"I'11 have what you're having," Christopher said.

She opened a couple of mini Chivas Regal bottles. "No ice. No mix. Okay?"

He agreed and she poured. They sipped the smooth, smoky whiskey. "Perfect," he said. "Now let's get down to business. I've saved the best for the last."

"Better than Kristi?"

"Better"

"What are these?" Emily asked. Christopher was holding several slips of paper that had been kept in the back of the black album as precious souvenirs.

"Letters from Bonnie's boyfriend."

Emily pulled them out and looked at the signature on the last page of the first missive.

"Dylan Walker?"

"Yeah, and it's the typical sick stuff that these creeps send to women on the outside."

"The lonely and desperate or the desperately lonely." Emily started to scan the pages. "The handwriting appears consistent with the penciled notations in the album," she said, flipping back to the "Me" and "Poor Dope" written on the news clippings.

"That's what I thought. I mean, we're not allowed to spec ulate-rush to judge-and everything goes through the lab." He rolled his blue eyes and smiled.

Emily started reading, mostly silently, but as she moved through the pages she caught a few choice lines and looked up at Christopher.

Feel me take off your clothes, one button at time ... lingering as they fall to the floor. Your hunger for my touch, insatiable ... but I try.

"Can you believe these women fall for this?"

"I know. Remember when the Shadow Murderer Bill Canton got married?"

Emily nodded, a disgusted look on her face. "You mean that Baby Jane-type blonde who went all over TV professing her love." "

"Yeah, her love for a man who stalked and killed eight young women and dumped them all over LA like they were garbage"

I guess Bonnie was that type of woman. Willing to believe anything, do anything, for love." She looked down and started reading, cherry-picking another line to read aloud.

... You stare back, longing for us to become one. Your hands slip between my legs ...