Chapter 16 BREE

Chapter 16

brEE

"Well, that was disgusting." Standing behind the open cargo hatch of her vehicle, Bree sprayed disinfectant on the soles of her boots and offered the can to Kilpatrick.

"Agreed." The agent used the spray generously. "And we didn't find anything useful."

"Jimmie is going to jail, though." A fact that cheered up Bree. "He'll be available if we need to question him again."

Bree's phone buzzed. Carlos's number popped onto the screen. "This is my tattoo guy." She pressed the phone to her ear and answered the call. "Hey, Carlos. You have something for me?"

"You betcha." He sounded proud. "Dude from Albany recognized the tattoo. The name of his shop is Freedom Body Art. It's on Central Ave."

Bree pulled up the address on her dashboard computer. "Thanks, Carlos."

"Goes by the name Picasso."

"OK." Bree made a note. "Thanks again."

"Anytime." The call ended.

"How far is that from here?" Kilpatrick asked.

"An hour."

"Let's roll."

Bree glanced at the time on her phone. "We'll grab food and eat on the way?"

"Sounds good."

"Burgers, subs?" Bree suggested.

Kilpatrick made a face. "I have some protein bars."

"Suit yourself." Bree stopped at a deli and grabbed a roasted chicken sandwich and two bottles of water. She scarfed her sandwich while she drove. Her phone buzzed again, and the name Cruella showed on the screen. A quick laugh burst out of her mouth before she could stop it. Matt must have changed the contact name on her phone. He'd compared the county administrator to the Disney character, and the nickname had stuck.

Kilpatrick glanced over, raising a brow.

Steering with her forearms, Bree wiped her hands on a napkin. "The county administrator and constant pain in my ass."

Kilpatrick put away her protein bar wrapper. "Politics?"

"My perpetual nightmare." Bree answered the call on speaker. "Sheriff Taggert."

"This is Madeline Jager."

"Sorry I missed the budget meeting." Bree was not sorry. "Duty called."

"That's not what I called about," Jager snapped. "Those bodies in the suitcases are all over the news."

"And?"

"And the press is now saying we might have another serial killer in Randolph County."

"I'm aware, but I can't stop them from speculating."

Jager's voice went shrill. "We can't have another serial killer."

Bree had no response.

"It looks bad for the county," Jager said.

"It does," Bree agreed.

"You need to handle the press, Sheriff."

"You're right," Bree said. "I'll call a press conference today."

Jager stuttered. "Well, OK, then ... You do that."

"I'll do it when I get back to the office this afternoon. Have a good day." Bree ended the call.

Kilpatrick chuckled. "She expected an argument?"

"That is our usual pattern, but I'd planned to hold a press conference today anyway." Cutting off Jager before she'd had a chance to go on a rant had been a bonus, which sounded petty. So she didn't admit that to the FBI agent.

"I don't know how she expects you to control the killer's motivation," Kilpatrick said.

Bree turned up a palm. "Politicians don't operate on logic. We had some young women killed recently. Everyone is understandably still on edge." She had no idea how she would manage the situation.

They listened to radio chatter for the remainder of the drive. The GPS directed her toward a strip mall. Freedom Body Art was a glass-fronted store on the end. The plate glass bore a detailed painted mural of a field of American flags waving in the wind.

Bree spotted a security camera pointed at the front door as she pushed it open.

An old-fashioned bell hanging from the door handle rang as she and Kilpatrick stepped inside. The shop was small and cluttered, with a counter at the front, a doorway in the back, and tables and equipment clustered in the middle. An old man maneuvered through the tight space. He was anywhere from sixty-five to a hundred years old, with a wiry body and skin the color and texture of old leather. His jeans sagged, and the arms that hung out of his white tank sported nautical-themed tattoos on nearly every square centimeter of skin. A few wisps of white hair stuck out from under the bandanna tied on his head. "Can I help you?"

"We're looking for Picasso," Bree said.

The old man thumped his chest with a fist. "That's me. What can I do for ya? I'm always happy to help the boys—er, gals—in blue."

If he'd been younger, Bree would have been offended. But she gave him some latitude considering his age. She introduced herself and Agent Kilpatrick. "I'll need your full name for my report."

"Cyrus Van der Cleese." He snorted. "Ridiculous, right? Now you know why I go by Picasso. I'm too broke to have a snooty name."

Bree scanned the inside of the shop. The walls were covered with close-up photos of intricate, clearly custom tattoos. She nodded toward one of a wolf's head drawn on an impressive biceps. The animal's face looked realistically feral. "Did you do all of these?"

He beamed. "Every single one."

"We're here about this tattoo." Bree showed him the image on her phone. "Carlos posted about it?"

Picasso wobbled to the counter on bowlegs, stiff-gaited as if he needed a double knee replacement. He picked up a pair of reading glasses from the counter and slid them onto his nose. "Like I told him, I remember it."

"What can you tell us?" Bree leaned a hip on the opposite side of the counter.

Picasso eased one butt cheek onto a stool. "The girls came in with the heart drawn on paper. I didn't design it, not that there's anything wrong with it. People are free to put whatever they want on their bodies. My style just runs more to the unique and intricate."

"Each of the women came in alone?" Kilpatrick asked.

Picasso nodded. One palm rested on an open binder of simple tattoo designs, the kind drunken groups of college girls got after too many shots of tequila.

"Do you have surveillance videos?" Bree asked.

"Yep." He pointed to the front and back of the store. "I got a camera on each door. They hold a rolling thirty days of videos."

Only thirty?

Kilpatrick stepped up beside Bree, her presence sharpening with her interest. "Did any of the women come in within the last thirty days?"

"Yep. The last one came in about ..." Picasso stared at the ceiling and waggled his head back and forth for a few seconds. "I'm gonna say ten days ago."

Ten days? If so, then it wasn't likely she was the most recent victim. Was she Kilpatrick's missing girl?

"Can you show us the video?" Bree asked.

"Sure." He slid off the stool and waved for them to follow him into a tiny office at the back of the store. The old wooden desk looked like it had been used in a school in the 1950s. Picasso slid into a squeaky chair and booted up a desktop computer. He opened an app and scrolled by date, muttering to himself. "Not her. Not her. Nope. Here she is." He turned the monitor to face them. On the screen, a girl opened the door and walked into the shop.

Bree groaned inside. The video was horribly grainy.

Picasso dragged the cursor backward, rewinding the feed, until the girl was in the center of the open door. Then he clicked PAUSE.

Kilpatrick said nothing, staring at the girl.

Bree could feel her disappointment. The girl wore a baseball cap that blocked most of her face. Between the cap and poor video quality, the image would not lead to a definite ID.

"She looks young," Bree said. The girl had long dark hair and was petite. Her tank top, short shorts, and spiked sandals looked expensive-trashy.

"She had ID." Picasso sounded defensive. "It said she was eighteen."

"Did you copy it?" Kilpatrick asked.

Picasso shook his head. "No. But I looked at it real good."

"You don't have any cameras inside the store?" Bree stared at the screen. The camera was focused, showing a small scrap of concrete walkway and a few feet of asphalt parking lot behind the girl. There were no cars in sight. If their killer had brought her, he'd parked out of camera range.

"Nope. That would be an invasion of privacy." Picasso drew back as if offended. "Tattoos are personal, and sometimes people want them in very personal places. My clients wouldn't be comfortable if they were being recorded."

"Understood." Bree soothed his professional ego. "We were just hoping to have additional images of her."

He relaxed and waved toward the monitor. "This is it."

Kilpatrick squinted at the screen. "Where did the women want these tattoos?"

"Top of the left breast." Picasso tapped his own chest with his forefingers.

Bree jerked her chin toward the computer monitor. "I'd like a copy of the video."

"I can do that." He slid a thumb drive into the USB slot and clicked a few buttons.

The FBI agent held out her phone to the artist. "Is this the most recent woman?"

Bree shifted so she could see the screen.

She's so young.

The picture looked like a high school senior photo, the girl wholesome and happy with long dark hair.

Picasso peered at the photo and then enlarged it. He shook his head. "I can't say. Maybe? She wore a lot of makeup. Probably needed a spatula to scrape it off."

Kilpatrick showed him another. This time it was a girl with her family, but the family's faces were blurred out.

He shook his head again.

She put her phone away, clearly discouraged.

The agent needs to tell me who she is.

Kilpatrick sighed. "When did the other women come in for the same tattoos?"

Picasso's face scrunched up. "One was maybe three months ago. Another maybe six or eight? I'm guessing. And the fourth was in between those."

"The fourth?" Kilpatrick's spine snapped straight.

Bree and the agent shared a quick glance.

Another victim?

Picasso pulled out the thumb drive and handed it to Bree. "Yeah. I did four of them."

"Can you describe any of the other women?" Bree mentally crossed her fingers.

"They all looked like they were under thirty-five. Long dark hair, thin." He shook his head. "One looked like a junkie. Had tracks on her arms. I wore two pairs of gloves for that one."

"Do you have records that would show the dates they came in?" Bree asked.

"Nah," Picasso said. "I'm not that organized. I keep a calendar of appointments for major design consultation and work, but not the small stuff. Most of those are walk-ins. Plus, the women paid in cash."

Ten minutes later, they walked out into the hot parking lot.

Bree faced Kilpatrick over the hood over the vehicle. She raised the thumb drive. "Do you think the FBI can eliminate some of the graininess?"

"I'm not sure. It's worth a try. I can show it to the missing girl's parents too. Maybe they'll recognize her clothes or the way she moves."

"She didn't look like someone who's being held against her will," Bree said. "She strolled right in."

"True, but if she's my missing girl, she's a minor."

"I get it, but I wonder if all the women were this willing."

Kilpatrick said, "Maybe they were willing until they weren't."

Was the girl still alive? And who got the fourth tattoo?

Fuck. Bree slowed as they approached the sheriff's station.

Mercy whistled. "That's not good."

Picketers marched up and down the sidewalk holding signs. Bree read a sign aloud. "Sheriff lies while girls die."

"Do you know that lie they're talking about?" Kilpatrick asked.

"I have no idea." Bree turned into the driveway that ran behind the building. The barrier rose, and she drove into the fenced parking lot. The protesters were out of sight, but she could hear them chanting as she and Mercy crossed the asphalt and entered through the back door.

Marge met them in Bree's office. "You saw the protest?"

"Couldn't miss it." Bree rounded her desk. "What are they talking about?"

Marge leaned over and turned on the desktop computer. "That blond reporter accused you of covering up another active serial killer."

Bree dropped into her chair. "Covering up what? We have a press conference scheduled for today."

Marge tipped her head at the screen. "Reality has nothing to do with clickbait headlines. The clip went viral."

Marge clicked PLAY. On the computer, the blond reporter stood in front of the station. He rehashed the information about the finding of the bodies in suitcases, the nail polish, and the long dark hair on the victims in a sensational tone. Then he finished with, "Two young women are dead, and there's been no update from Sheriff Taggert. What is the sheriff's department hiding? Is there another serial killer in Randolph County? Why doesn't the sheriff want you to know?"

Bree wanted to scream. She checked the time. "The best way to combat this nonsense is with the truth. Let's move up the press conference. I'll be out in fifteen minutes. Have Juarez print a photo of Vanessa Mullen and a close-up of the tattoo."

Marge exited with a slight bow of her head.

Bree faced the FBI agent. "Do you want to be in on this or not?"

"I'm going to head back to my motel and check in with my office," Kilpatrick said. "I don't want to be on camera."

Considering the media attack, it would have been nice to have an FBI agent at her back, but Bree didn't make it an issue. "I'll catch up with you tomorrow."

After the agent left, Bree checked her appearance in the locker room, tucked a few stray hairs back into her bun, and decided that was good enough. She went out to the lobby. Reporters were crammed into every inch of space. They shuffled camera equipment and presented microphones like flags as Bree took her place. Juarez stood at her flank, the two photos tucked under his arm.

Bree spotted the blond reporter in the front row, but she looked over the entire crowd before beginning. "I've called you here for an update on the women found in the suitcases. The medical examiner has completed the autopsies. One of the victims has been identified as Grey's Hollow resident Vanessa Mullen, age thirty-one. Vanessa was reported missing six months ago by her ex-husband. The medical examiner was unable to determine the cause of death. She has likely been dead for several months, but we do not have a specific time frame."

Juarez turned an eight-by-ten copy of Vanessa's driver's license photo to the press.

Bree continued. "The second victim is as of yet unidentified. Her time of death is pending test results. She is believed to be age sixteen to twenty-five, approximately five foot two, and had long brown hair."

The blond reporter interrupted, yelling, "The autopsies were conducted yesterday. Why did you wait so long to bring the public this new information?" The question was delivered like an accusation.

"Because the next of kin deserves to be notified first," Bree said.

The blond was not swayed. "The public has a right to know."

"No one wants to learn the fate of their missing loved one on the news or social media." Bree let the point stand for one breath, then continued. "Both victims had matching tattoos. We doubt this is a coincidence. This is where we'd like help from the public." She motioned to Juarez, who showed the second photo. "If anyone has seen this tattoo or has any other information about the case, please call the sheriff's department." Bree recited the phone number.

Reporters clamored for attention. Bree ignored the blond and pointed at a different reporter. "Go."

"Is this the work of another serial killer?"

"It's too early in the investigation to make that assertion, but I won't rule it out either." Bree nodded toward a man in the second row.

"How did the women die?"

"The medical examiner isn't one hundred percent sure," Bree said. "But it's possible that the unidentified woman was strangled."

The blond, clearly frustrated, called out, "Is Vanessa Mullen's ex-husband a suspect?"

"We have no reason to believe he was involved in her death," Bree said. "In fact, Mr. Mullen is the one who reported her missing."

A commotion at the door caught everyone's attention. Heads swiveled, and the crowd parted. Madeline Jager strode through the crowd. A cream-colored pantsuit fit her thin frame, and her unnaturally red hair was fresh-from-the-salon fluffy. She looked like a cherry lollipop.

Bree made an effort not to show her displeasure as the county administrator made a place for herself at Bree's side, forcing Juarez to move. Jager did nothing accidentally. Her presence at the press conference was deliberate as fuck.

Most of Jager's face was Botoxed into immobility, but she gave Bree a hairy eyeball.

Reluctantly, Bree yielded the mic. What else could she do? Jager was going to address the press no matter what Bree did. Lack of cooperation between county agencies was a bad look.

"The sheriff's department is working hard to find this murderer, and it's up to you to help bring him to justice," Jager said with as much fanfare as the reporter. "To that end, we are offering a five-thousand-dollar reward for any tip that leads to the arrest of the killer."

Bree's jaw dropped open a half inch as bedlam broke out in the room. She quickly snapped her mouth shut. Best to appear as if she knew about the reward. But holy hell. This was not a wealthy county. The fake tips would be flowing in like floodwater.