Page 7 of Pack Coffey

He nods and pulls off the side of the road. Without getting out, he points down the hill where yellow police tape has cordoned off a massive section of the woods. A half mile ahead of us on the road there are reporters standing with microphones in their hands in front of their cameras. It angers me for a moment, but that anger simply makes me a hypocrite. I may tell the story of the victims for their justice and for their families, but I still get paid for them. Something I may need to change in the very near future.

"What do you see?" Saint asks, pulling me out of my head.

I roll my window down again, letting in the warming air, all of the scents of the woods, and the noise of the people milling around. I don't answer him for a few minutes while my brain processes what he's asking for because the answer isn't in the people or the police tape or even the reporters down the road.

A slight breeze blows through the trees making them creak loudly. Other than this road, there aren't any other pull offs or turnarounds in sight. There aren't even any tire marks on the road or the ground leading down the hill. What's more is that there's no drag marks down the hill. She was either carried or killed here. Right in the middle of nothing where no one could hear her scream.

Saint says nothing as the thoughts process through my mind. When I finally turn to him, it's to find him patiently waiting for me. "From what I've heard on the news, it's just like the others."

He nods once, and I keep going, telling him my conclusions and adding, "He left her close enough to the road so that someone would find her. He's not trying to hide them."

"She was spotted by someone driving by right at dawn this morning," he confirms. "Why do you keep calling the perpetrator a him?"

I put my coffee in one of the cup holders and start popping my knuckles and running my fingers across my nails in the nervous tick that I have sometimes. His eyes track the movement, but he doesn't comment on it.

"I don't know," I tell him, shaking my head. "It's just a feeling that I have."

"Same," he confesses before starting the car and turning us to go back the way we came from.

Thoughts and images roll around in my head all the way back to town. It isn't until he's putting the car in park that I even know where we are.

"Why are we at the police station?" I ask as he gets ready to get out.

"This is where I work," he states plainly.

Squishing my eyes tight again, I try to fight off the embarrassment, because duh. Of course, he works at the police station. I hop out of the car, leaving my now empty cup and following him inside. He walks us all the way to the back of the building to one of the offices with Saint Coffey written on the plaque on the door.

He offers me one of the seats in front of his desk, but doesn't walk to the other side like I expect him to. Instead, he takes the other seat at my side, grabbing a folder off the desk. Handing it to me, he says, "I've gotten approval to bring you on to the case as a civilian consultant. I just need you to read and sign this contract. Understand that if you break anything in here, you're subject to perjury of the law."

My eyes widen a bit, because I can't be going to jail. A girl like me wouldn't survive.

"Don't worry," he assures me. "It's just things like not speaking to the media or anyone about the investigation until it's closed. And not putting yourself at unnecessary risk for the department. Things like that. Oh, and if we’re ever in the field, and there comes a time that I have to use my bark, it’ll be for your safety and no other reason."

I read through it fully, twice, before signing it and handing it back. I don't care about the notoriety the case would bring. That's not why I ever started doing what I do in the first place. I don't care about being famous or rich. More than the justice and remembrance for the families, I have my own black spot on my record that will never be clean no matter how much I try to scrub it away.

"What now?" I ask. Then gasping, add, "Saint! That's his third victim. He's classified as a serial killer now."

He nods sadly. "We were truly hoping that it wouldn't come to that, but it appears to be so. Come on, I want to show you something."

We leave his office and walk down to another one a little further down. His hand closes around the handle, but he turns around to warn me, "This is going to be hard to see. If you can't handle it, or need to take a break, you tell me."

He's watching my face for what I'm assuming is hesitancy.

"You've got to trust me," I tell him. "I'll tell you if it's too much."

His lips thin into a line before he swings the door open. At first, I'm not sure what he's made such a big deal about, but when we walk into the room and I see the board for the first time, I get it. It's parallel to the door, so I didn't see it at first. Then for a moment, I wish that I hadn't. Of course, that'simmediately followed by guilt. Someone needs to see them like this. If for no other reason than to help bring their killer to justice.

Hanging on the board are the three girls that've been murdered. There are photos from when they're alive and ones from when they were found. The hardest ones are the autopsy photos where they're lying on the cold metal table. Thankfully all of their eyes are closed, but that doesn't mean that I'll be able to get the images out of my mind, even if I could do an internal scrub with ten gallons of bleach. It wouldn't be enough.

Shutting my own feelings down and shoving them to the side, I let the information from the photos soak into my brain. All of the locations are exactly like I said they were. Reserved, but just open enough for them all to be found easily. They all have dark bruises around their necks.

"What was their cause of death?" I ask Saint without looking away.

"You tell me," he says from somewhere behind me.

"Strangulation," I answer him instantly.

He makes a sound of agreement in the back of his throat.

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