Cassie Miles - Protective Confinement

The detective introduced himself. “Josef Meier.”

“What have you got, Meier?”

“I think this is the guy you’re looking for.”

Though the detective’s mouth pinched in a scowl, his eyes flickered with suppressed excitement that made him look too young for the grisly job of investigating a notorious serial murderer who restrained his victims for four days before finally killing them and burning their bodies beyond all recognition.

Meier’s enthusiasm made Dash feel older than his thirty-four years. He was jaded, impatient. He dragged a hand through his close-cropped light brown hair and waited for Meier to continue.

“For one thing,” Meier said, “the woman who went missing—Dr. Cara Messinger—fits the typical victim profile.”

He held up a photograph of a young woman with long, straight black hair. In the picture, she wore baggy shorts and hiking boots. Her tanned legs were long and firm but not too muscular. Her shapeless khaki shirt didn’t conceal her high, full breasts. A striking, attractive woman.

“Cara,” Dash said. “Pretty name.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dash hoped he wasn’t looking at a photograph that would be displayed at her memorial service. “How tall is she?”

“Five feet, seven inches. She’s half-Navajo but wasn’t raised on the reservation. Her eyes aren’t brown.”

“What color are they?”

“Hard to say. One witness said blue.” He cocked his head and squinted into Dash’s face. “Not a bright blue like yours.”

Dash lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “Are you coming on to me, Detective?”

“No, sir.” Meier straightened up. “Her driver’s license says her eyes are gray.”

Dash sipped his cold, murky coffee. Cara Messinger fit the profile, but that wasn’t enough of a connection. There were a lot of dark-haired women who disappeared, and Dr. Messinger was more intelligent than the other victims of this killer. “She’s a Ph.D., right?”

“An archaeology professor at the university. And she’s only thirty-two.”

A high achiever. Competitive. Dash understood that personality type. He’d graduated from Harvard Law with honors at twenty-three. After two years in private practice at a prestigious firm, he’d realized that he wanted to take a more aggressive approach to justice and had joined the FBI—a career path that his family despised. “What else have you got, Detective?”

Meier led the way through the small house to the rear bedroom. In spite of the guest bed, this room was clearly used as an office. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were crammed full. The oak desk was piled high with papers. The beautiful Dr. Messinger wasn’t the tidiest woman on the planet. The lapse in perfection was endearing.

Meier pointed to the broken glass in a casement window. “I figure he got inside through here. He was waiting for her. That’s part of your serial killer’s modus operandi.”

“Do you have proof that he was waiting for her?”

Meier shrugged. “I guess not.”

Making assumptions was the downfall of too many investigations. Dash went to the casement window that opened with a crank—an open invitation to robbery. All an intruder had to do was break the glass, reach inside and unfasten the latch. He noticed the dust used by the CSI team to lift fingerprints.

“Prints?”

“Several,” Meier said. “We’re running them through the system. No identifications yet.”

If this was the same guy, there wouldn’t be traceable prints. He never left forensic evidence. Not a print. Not a hair. Not a fiber. “Tell me about your witnesses.”

Meier referred to a notebook. “Dr. Messinger was reported missing today by a friend who was supposed to meet her for lunch.”

“A boyfriend?” Often the individual who reported the crime was the perpetrator.

“Female. The friend got worried, came here, peeked through the window and called us.” He flipped a page in his notebook. “The last time Dr. Messinger was seen was on Thursday night. She got home late after an evening lecture at the university.”

Dash wasn’t convinced that he was dealing with a serial killer. Not with so many other plausible explanations. Dr. Cara Messinger might have argued with a lover. Drugs could be involved. For all he knew, she’d had a psychological breakdown and decided to disappear all on her own.

A massive orange-striped cat stalked into the room, sprang onto the bed and glared at them.

Dash scowled back. “Who’s this feline witness?”

“The neighbor said his name is Yazzie. The neighbor also reported that Dr. Messinger’s car has been parked out front since Friday morning.”

“Which backs up your theory that she was snatched on Thursday night.” He sipped his coffee. “By a serial killer.”

“It’s more than a theory,” Meier said heatedly.

The young detective wanted credit for making this connection, even though he was probably overreacting.

“Prove it to me,” Dash said.

“There’s one more piece of evidence.”

As Dash and Meier returned to the front room, the cat followed, muttering cantankerous growls with every step.

Meier pointed to the laptop computer. “I just got it charged and booted up. Take a look.”

Dash read the message line. The Judge.

A burst of adrenaline shot through his veins. If Meier was correct, Dr. Messinger had been abducted on Thursday night. The Judge always held his victims, toyed with them. He killed on the fourth day. Tomorrow. Sunday. “We need to move fast.”

He picked up the photograph again and stared at the attractive black-haired woman. She must be going through hell right now.

Her tongue was dry. The inside of her mouth tasted as if she’d been eating sand. A plastic water bottle stood on a chair beside the narrow bed, but Cara didn’t dare drink from it.

Earlier, she’d figured out that the liquid in the water bottle was drugged, probably with a hallucinogen. Every time she’d taken a sip, her wits had gone numb. She’d become dizzy and docile, nearly unconscious. Then came the nightmares. Terrible apparitions of kachina demons. Snake dancers. And spiders, hundreds of spiders crawling over her flesh. Then came the drumming—a thunderous, intense, throbbing beat that had resonated in every cell of her body.

She shook her head to erase the horror of her dreams. Focus, Cara. Her imagination was nowhere near as bad as her reality. She was a captive with wrists and ankles bound. How long had it been? How many days and nights had she been locked inside this small, square room? She didn’t know. Her memory floated in a dank miasma. A blur.

After the stun gun, he hadn’t hurt her further. Russell had used a soft cotton rope that didn’t dig into her skin, but the restraint was still painful. Her muscles ached. She needed to move, wanted to run.

Through the single, uncurtained window, she saw pinpricks of stars. The glimmer was mesmerizing. As she watched, the stars seemed to streak toward her, closer and closer. They became spears, aimed at her head.

With a frightened gasp, she turned away. Even the stars were against her. No one could help her.

Frustrated, she struggled against the rope that tied her hands in front of her. This couldn’t be happening. But it was. She was here. A prisoner. And she had to escape.

Before she could think or reason, Cara needed to move. She sat up on the bed. Opened her eyes. Waited for the room to stop spinning.

She lifted the water bottle. God, she was thirsty. But she didn’t drink. Carefully, she dribbled out a portion of liquid behind the bed, out of sight. It was important for Russell to think she was still drugged.

Now came the hard part: standing up. Her feet touched the worn, filthy carpet on the floor. Concentrating on balance, she stood. Her cramped muscles screamed. Her backbone felt as if she’d been twisted in a knot. Ignore the pain. She could do this. In baby steps, she inched toward the wooden table where Russell had laid out several items, including a knife.