Trisha had been left on top of a grave. I’d researched the area and made a note of it on my phone so we could find the exact location. Michael and I wove between the tombstones in search of the spot.
I wanted to pretend like things were normal between us. But I felt the tension. I felt that something had changed after our conversation on the way here.
Pressure pushed on my heart. That was sadness, wasn’t it?
I knew it was. The heaviness was a result of something good being over before it had really begun.
Was this entanglement between Michael and I over? I couldn’t be sure. I only knew that things had gotten a lot more complicated at Roxy’s sudden appearance.
“Here it is.” I pointed to a tombstone in the distance.
It read Edna Murphy. 1917–1991. Loving wife, mother, and grandmother. May her memory be eternal.
There was nothing else special, per se, about the tombstone—nothing that made it stand out from the others.
“Why did he choose this one?” Michael asked, as if reading my thoughts.
“Good question,” I said. “I have no idea.”
I took out my phone and snapped some pictures so I could remember all the details. Then I paused and glanced around to see if there was anything unique about this cemetery.
Overall, the site seemed ordinary. Large oak trees were scattered among the tombstones, and the whole place was situated on rolling hills. The grounds were immaculate and well-kept.
But nothing I saw offered any clues about why this location might be important.
“Do you think we came out here for nothing?” I glanced at Michael.
He shook his head, but his jaw looked tight. “I think it’s good to see where this killer has been. To walk in his footsteps. To visualize him driving up in the middle of the night. There’s no fence around the cemetery. He could have pulled up, lifted his victim from the trunk, and placed her here like a corpse—only on the ground instead of six feet under.”
“How do you know that the victim was in the trunk?”
“If I remember correctly, there were some carpet fibers found on one of the victims. That information was released to the press, I believe.”
I shuddered as I imagined it playing out. Had the killer chosen this location because there wasn’t a fence? Or was there another reason?
I glanced around again. I didn’t see anything that looked vaguely like a security camera or an overhead light. For that reason, this area was prime for a crime like this.
I stood there for another moment, giving my silent respects to Trisha. She deserved that, at least. And, while I was at it, I even tried to offer some respect for Edna. The notion just seemed appropriate for the moment.
After a few minutes of silence, Michael turned toward me. “You ready to go?”
I nodded. But I’d really hoped we’d find something that would offer some insight into this case. We weren’t done yet . . . and I really hoped all of this wasn’t for nothing.
Our next stop took us down to the Fairfax area and another cemetery. It was almost like the killer had changed his MO after his first two victims. They’d been left at cemeteries, but the rest had not. I wasn’t sure what had happened to change his mind or if the change had been this man’s plan from the start.
This cemetery looked similar to the last, except for the small fence surrounding it. As soon as Michael and I pulled through the gate, I glanced around.
Were those security cameras on the light posts?
Maybe—just maybe—they held some type of clue.
I looked down at the information I’d brought with me and directed Michael to the right gravesite.
We stopped in front of another plot. This tombstone read: Kenneth Jenkins. 1964–2004. Beloved father, son, and friend. Once met, never forgotten.
The epitaph was beautiful. Who wouldn’t want that to be said of them? I hoped that was the way I was living my life also—that I was making a difference to those I met.
Michael and I again stared at the little patch of grass by a tombstone.
Why had the killer chosen this location? It still made no sense. And I hated it when things didn’t make sense.
“You’re observant, Elliot.” Michael glanced at me. “Anything strike you?”
“As in, hit me?”
“No, as in . . .” He pressed his lips together in thought. “As in, has anything stood out to you here?”
I shook my head, maybe a little too quickly. But I already knew that answer. “No. There’s nothing. Maybe I’m losing my touch.”
“Don’t be silly. How many steps did we have to climb to get to this part of the cemetery?”
I shrugged, trying not to feel self-conscious. “Thirty-two,” I finally said.
Yes, I liked counting things. I liked knowing things. I just tried not to hang out my freak flag for everyone to see all the time.
“How many security cameras?” Michael continued.
I cringed again. “Eight. One on each light post.”
“You’ve got a gift. If anyone’s going to notice something that’s strange or out of place, it’s going to be you.”
“I appreciate your vote of confidence.” I only wished there was a way to ensure I wasn’t going to let him down—that I wouldn’t let the victims of the Beltway Killer down.
Just as I said those words, a man wearing coveralls started toward us from atop the hill. The man was probably in his sixties with a long gray beard and weathered skin. His eyes, wrinkled at the edges, made me think of someone brimming with wisdom.
Could you do this job and not realize just how fragile and precious life was? I doubted it.
He paused a few feet away.
“Here because of the Beltway Killer?” His voice sounded thin and frail as he addressed us.
“I guess you get a lot of people coming out this way for that reason,” Michael said.
“We do,” the man said. “I suppose people are curious, even if that does sound morbid.”
I stepped into the cool shade of the oak tree as I felt my skin heating in the sun. “Were you working here when the body was found?”
A frown tugged at his thin lips. “I was. I was the one who found her. I came in for my morning shift at six a.m. I walked around the cemetery, just to make sure everything was okay, as I do every morning. To my surprise, I saw someone lying there.” He shook his head, as if reliving the bad memories pained him. “I couldn’t believe it. Never seen anything like that in my lifetime.”
“I heard the victim looked peaceful,” I said, remembering everything I’d researched. “That there were no cuts or bruises or anything wrong with her.”
“That’s right. This woman . . . her hair looked nice. Her clothes were clean. She may have even had a little bit of lipstick on.”
I shuddered at the irony of death and beauty mingling together. It didn’t seem right.
“A rose with a rope knotted around it was left on her chest. Never did hear that on the police reports, but I’m guessing the killer did this for all his victims. He wanted credit where credit was due. That was my impression, at least.”
Why would anyone want credit for something like that? Then again, maybe there were some people who just wanted credit for something. Maybe the Beltway Killer felt like this was an accomplishment. Maybe he felt like the fact that the police hadn’t caught him yet was something he was proud of.