Nancy Grace - The Eleventh Victim

The house was quiet and turning dark. She hadn’t turned on any lights yet. The dogs lay there forlornly, not even rousing to bark their heads off for dinner.

For the first time ever, she hated their quiet.

Walking out the back door onto the deck, Virginia stopped in her tracks, looking into the sky over the water. Dark, wet evening air was blowing off the Georgia coast. It was breathtaking.

Her ribs ached and her fingers felt like they were broken. She could still wiggle them and they were currently curled around a drink, so they must be intact.

The sea oats swayed on the dunes, and instinctively, she flipped off the patio’s outdoor lights so as not to disturb any sea turtles mating or burying eggs out in the sandy curves. The gestation, birth, and nurturing of the Coastal Sea Turtle was time-consuming and laborious, but what sea turtle wouldn’t be lured by a night like tonight?

Staring out at the dunes, she pondered her next move against Palmetto.

A fire? No, too destructive to the Island. A bomb? She didn’t know how to make one, although if that freak McVeigh could make one out of horse manure, she could do the same. There was plenty of dog poop around her house…the wieners had awful manners.

Okay, she was not making a bomb out of wiener doo-doo. She snorted into her glass at the mere thought of it.

But another day of construction had passed. The attack on Virginia had postponed the amphibious sneak attack. The high-rise was inching toward the moment when they could no longer sabotage it as easily as they had so far. As soon as the cement foundation was poured, they would be at a loss.

There had to be a way… She had done it before. She, Virginia Gunn, had single-handedly stopped a gigantic new four-lane bridge from crossing the water from mainland to Island. It took all her skills and cunning.

You did it, though, she reminded herself as she sipped her drink.

But what about Palmetto Dunes? The County Commission had clearly been bought off. She could always file a lawsuit on behalf of the citizens, and as guardian protecting the sea turtles.

But she knew that in the end she would lose in court and likely be outed as the midnight marauder at Palmetto Dunes. Then, one way or the other, the others would be dragged in and likely lose their jobs and what little money they made at the mall, the IHOP, the Radio Shack, and the local public schools. Jobs and money…maybe more.

Virginia poured another drink and downed it. Why bother with the glass? It just slowed things down. She swigged straight from the bottle, hoping for inspiration. Sidney led the other wieners out onto the deck and they hopped up into her lap and nestled in.

She needed a fresh idea. She’d wait until this time tomorrow night-no, a little later, when it was pitch black. A late-night drive out to the south beaches. She’d go back to the construction site alone to check it out. Maybe there was another angle she’d missed, something, somehow, some way they could put the skids on the high-rise again.

Something short of a wiener-bomb.

The water lapped up; she could hear but not see it. The spray blew across her face, not bracing, but in a gentle way instead. The Seven Sisters, the Cassiopeia constellation, smiled down at her. Over the dark curve of the ocean, on the other side of the stars, she saw a glow against the dark of the sky. Then she saw it in full. There was a new moon rising.

New York City

THERE WAS NO TIME TO FEEL AND NO TIME TO WASTE. FUELED BY grim reality, Hailey went methodically to each window in the apartment and pulled down the shades. In the kitchen, she put the kettle back on the flame.

Wherever he was, he was either watching her now or watching the exit nearly thirty floors below. She double-checked all the locks on windows and doors.

Did it matter? Somehow, he’d managed to get in here once. He could do it again.

A shrill whistle pierced the silence.

Hailey instinctively placed her right hand on the grip of the gun…

It was just the kettle.

She left the window and crossed the stone floor to turn off the gas flame. Pulling open the kitchen drawer for a spoon, once again, the old chill went from jaw to spine and stomach down to calves and toes.

It was there…entangled in the knives and forks and spoons.

Something that shouldn’t, couldn’t have been there. It hadn’t been there before. It wasn’t there when she’d pulled out the last spoon before she left for work so many hours before.

Kitchen twine. An oblong wind of it was peeking out from under the rows of silverware, some of it curled up into the utensils, all neatly in their kitchen drawer dividers like she’d arranged them.

Hailey whirled and in a frenzy began yanking open drawers and tearing through cabinets, their contents falling harshly to the floor. She ransacked her closet, looked under the bed, tore the mattress off the frame, thrust her hands down pillowcases, unzipped the pillows themselves, and felt the foam rubber for lumps. The laundry closet, the washer and dryer, the umbrella stand…

It was here…somewhere. It had to be…but where?

Somewhere in her apartment was a ticking time bomb. How many were there?

Back to the kitchen, she knelt on the floor to reach a low drawer dedicated to cloth napkins, pot holders, and place mats. Reaching far to the back, she began feeling her way through them as if she were blind, feeling for something…and found it at last.

It was wrapped inside a set of old kitchen towels she’d brought up from Atlanta.

It was still crusted in blood.

Hailey unfolded a single, four-pronged poultry-lifter. The last time she had seen one like it was in an Atlanta courtroom, when she’d held it in her left hand, arm outstretched, walking the length of the jury rail.

Instinct made Hailey raise the lifter up under the vented hood over the stove to inspect it. It was the same… She knew before looking.

A Norpro, identical to the one used in Atlanta. A solid, stainless-steel Norpro…an evil-looking poultry-lifter with steely sharp prongs.

Glancing again at the shades pulled down snug over the windows, she walked back to the silverware drawer and pulled out the twine.

Again, she knew, before she’d even turned it upside down to read the label, that it would be the exact same type as used in the Atlanta murders.

Sisson Imports, made in France. Three hundred inches of it, glossy and white.

When did he plant it?

In her other hand, the four-pronged lifter felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.

Whose blood was crusted on the tines? Melissa’s? Hayden’s? Someone else’s? Another one of her patients whose body was yet to be discovered?

The pressure in her head was unbearable; she could literally feel the blood draining from her lips.

How long would it be until the police came to search her apartment?

They would find her here with the weapon and the twine.

No explanation would suffice. She had to destroy it. What else could she do? Go to Kolker and tell him, “Gee, I just found the murder weapon in my kitchen drawer and I can’t imagine how it got there…”

What to do?…what to do?

What would they expect her to do?

Wrap it in a plastic bag and throw it out in the garbage? Then throw it down the trash chute, where it would be discovered in the main receptacle? Identifiable in the same bag with all the junk mail with her name and address on it mixed with kitchen debris and other trash? Traceable right down to batch, lot, and specific D’Agostino’s grocery store where she’d bought the trash bag? They’d probably even dig up some grainy surveillance video of her actually at D’Ag’s buying trash bags.