Breaking Creed

22

Maggie O’Dell curled into the sofa, bare feet tucked underneath her and her head swirling from the nightcap she had convinced herself she deserved, since she hadn’t finished her second beer at Old Ebbitt’s. Now she wished she had invited Ben to come back to her house.

She had recently rebuilt and remodeled much of the two-story Tudor after a fire had destroyed the front section of the house. The process had been painstaking, but amazingly, she could no longer smell soot or ash or any hint of what had happened. Still, the place felt different.

She knew the fire had destroyed more than the plaster and beams and furniture. It had taken a chunk of O’Dell’s sense of security. The house sat on a wooded acre, isolated by a creek and a natural preserve behind the property. Ironically, she had bought the place with a trust her father had left her — her father, who as a firefighter had died in the line of duty when O’Dell was just twelve. She thought she had created a sanctuary with its high-tech security system and the natural barriers of the high-banked creek that ran along the back of the property. Even the stately pines that bordered the sides reminded her of sentries standing guard, shoulder to shoulder.

She also had two canine bodyguards: one she’d rescued and the other had rescued her. Harvey, a white Labrador retriever, lay on the sofa beside her, his head against her thigh. Jake stayed at her feet, the German shepherd constantly on alert. The dogs put up with her late nights, many of which were spent here in the living room instead of her upstairs master bedroom. She couldn’t remember the last time she had slept more than three or four hours at a time. She accepted the insomnia as if it were just another occupational hazard. However, the nightcap was beginning to do its job.

Just as she decided to call it quits for the night, she noticed a new e-mail. The icon flashed in the corner of her laptop’s screen. She’d come up empty-handed after putting through several searches in the databases she had access to. ViCAP hadn’t come back with any matches close to an MO of fire ants being used as torture. Not that she expected any. What was more remarkable was that none of the floater’s info seemed to ring any bells.

O’Dell was used to looking closely at a victim’s lifestyle, habits, whereabouts, connections — anything that might lead her to the killer. Some victims were at higher risk than others, even if they were chosen randomly by a killer. Driving late at night in an unfamiliar area, accepting a ride from a stranger, drinking at an establishment of ill repute, buying drugs, engaging in prostitution put a person at higher risk. Yes, it might sound like blaming the victim, but it was an unfortunate fact that some homicide victims — like, perhaps, a drug dealer — put themselves at more risk than the ordinary person. And knowing how and where and under what circumstances the victim met his or her killer could oftentimes beat a path to the killer’s identity.

However, Trevor Bagley had no outstanding warrants, no arrests, no fines — not even an unpaid parking ticket. All taxes — property and income — were up-to-date. According to the Alabama real estate tax assessor, Bagley owned a house on ten acres. His mortgage had no late-payment fees.

His 2012 Dodge Ram pickup had been paid off. As was a brand-new Land Rover that was also registered in his wife Regina’s name. Bagley’s driver’s license was current. He was self-employed and so was his wife. In the last year he had been an independent contractor working for a commercial fisherman.

There was no record of drug use or abuse for either Bagley or his wife. No debt or liens against them or their property. Just two respectable taxpayers minding their own business.

The only thing O’Dell could find about Trevor Bagley that possibly sent up a red flag was his discharge from the military. She wasn’t given access to see why and suspected it might have been a dishonorable discharge. She’d need to investigate that more closely.

Now, as she scanned the e-mail that had just come in, she saw no new information. Nothing to even suggest drug dealing. How could she have been so wrong? Had she let a tattoo of Santa Muerte judge this poor man? Was it possible he was the random victim of a sadistic killer?

She typed Bagley’s home address into the Google Maps search. Just as she suspected, the ten acres were in a remote part of southern Alabama. Few roads showed up. The Conecuh River ran on the left side of the property. Not far to the south was the Conecuh National Forest. Before she clicked on the satellite view, she found herself wondering if it was possible Bagley was tortured in his own backyard.

Maybe Regina Bagley could help shed light on how her husband could have met a fate like this. Unfortunately, the woman wasn’t answering her phone. O’Dell had already reserved a morning flight but she wasn’t looking forward to it. Never mind that she hated flying, she hated even more to have to break such news to a family member. How exactly was she supposed to tell Mrs. Bagley that her husband had been tortured and his body dumped nine hundred miles away in the Potomac River?