Page 21 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth
I flip through the stack of reports in my in-box. Nothing urgent. So I turn back to the computer and open my email. I scroll past administrative announcements, a message from HR, and a reminder that I need to meet with the assistant district attorney next week to do trial prep for a case coming up. Then I see it. The file I requested from the cold case unit in Maricopa County came in while I was driving Emily to the cabin, and, miracle of miracles, it’s fully digitized. I’m pumping my fist in triumph when the door bangs open.
I whirl around on the stool and pop to my feet. Graham Stone meets my surprised expression with a look I can’t quite interpret. Is it sadness? Regret? I study my boss’s downturned lips and furrowed brow. Disappointment, I decide.
“What are you doing here so late?” I ask, trying to hide my nervousness.
“I could ask you the same.”
“I wanted to make some headway on the stabbing.”
He nods, distracted, as he crosses the room to peer over my shoulder at the file on the screen. “Arizona?” He points to the letterhead on the screen.
I clear my throat. “I remembered a stabbing that happened when I was living out there. Very similar MO to ours. I wondered if it was ever solved or if they developed any suspects, so I reached out.”
Graham bobs his head like he’s impressed by my initiative, but there’s still something off about his demeanor.
He leans in for a closer look at the victim’s photo. I remember this shot from the media coverage at the time of her murder. It’s a candid shot, taken at the equine summer camp where she’d worked between high school and college. Her head is tilted, resting against the side of the horse’s head. Both the young woman and the animal grin broadly at the camera.
Graham takes in the image, focusing on the copper color of the woman’s hair. “Another redhead.”
He flicks his gaze to the photo pinned on the bulletin board behind my desk. Giselle Ward, the latest victim. Our victim. Giselle is the reddest of redheads. In the picture, Giselle is dressed in a ballet costume—a leotard and tutu, up on pointe with one leg extended behind her in a high, straight line. Even pinned into a neat bun, it’s obvious that her hair is the color of a blazing fire.
The point of the picture is to remind the investigators that our victim was once a vibrant, lively woman and not the bloodied, battered husk shown in the crime scene photos. We don’t need the reminder. At least I don’t.
“Dana Rowland,” I say now.
“College student?”
“A freshman. She was killed during Spring Break in her dorm room. She stayed on campus to work out with the rest of the equestrian team.”
He groans the knowing groan of a bureaucrat. “That must’ve been a shit show. Panicked parents from around the country demanding answers; administrators in crisis management mode trying to control the messaging.”
I shrug. “I’m sure it was. I was sixteen at the time, so none of that registered.” Another glance at Dana’s photo. “Just the murder.”
“This happened in your town?”
“No, Tempe.” I shake my head. “It’s nearby, though. We lived in Scottsdale. The university in Tempe was less than thirty minutes away, and Dana was from Phoenix.” I pause. “You know anything about the Phoenix metro area?”
“Not really.”
“In addition to Phoenix proper, the metropolitan area encompasses the towns of Scottsdale, Tempe, Mesa, and Chandler, among others. They’re all in Maricopa County.”
“So, basically your hometown.”
I resist the urge to shift my weight. “You could say that, I guess.”
There’s a long pause while he eyes me. “You think we have a serial killer? Two redheads in their early twenties stabbed fourteen years apart?”
There’s zero chance I’m answering this question, so I gaze steadily back at him until he answers it himself.
“You know the saying. Two’s a coincidence.”
I finish the old saw, “Three’s a pattern.”
Of course, Graham doesn’t know there are three stabbing attacks on college-aged redheads if you count the attempt on Lexi Lincoln. Four, if you count the murder of Cassie Baughman. While Cassie was a blonde, not a redhead, she was sleeping in Emily’s bedroom the night she was butchered. Four events spaced at seven-year intervals in Maine, Arizona, Ohio, and Pennsylvania. It’s a pattern all right. But I have no intention of connecting the dots for him. And what he says next makes me damn glad I didn’t.
He frowns. “Worth looking into, though. Forward me the file.”
I pull back in surprise. “You’re going to follow up on it?” Graham hasn’t done field work since—well, I don’t know when. He was the supervisor in charge of the lab when I was hired. So, at least as long as I’ve been here.
