roots as varied as their ages.
“As you know, she was found here.” James turned his computer around. He pointed it out on the detailed map of one of the most neglected areas of the city. “Five o’clock in the morning, a transit driver on her way to work found her. She called it in immediately and stayed with the victim until police and an ambulance arrived.”
“A Good Samaritan.”
“I salute them almost every day on this job,” James said with sincerity.
Travis couldn’t agree more. The unsung heroes. The civilians who went above and beyond were an invaluable resource that often went unpraised and unnoticed.
“She was damn lucky,” Travis said. Having her alive and able to ID the killer was a huge break in a case that, as horrific as it was, unfortunately, was titillating. The media had had a field day following the trail of the killer and that news had gained a growing body of followers over the months of the spree. Now those killings were being tied to others hinting that the killer might have been active much longer than authorities had known. That was the dark side of humanity. They loved tragedies and horrors, as long as they had no personal connection to them, of course. He pushed the chair back and stood up. Despite what he’d said, he was anxious to get back into action even if it was as non-challenging as babysitting a potential witness who was no longer in danger. The perp had been put behind bars.
“She was lucky. She escaped before she could be assaulted or worse. According to what she told authorities, she wasn’t sexually assaulted. She was backhanded a number of times. She has some fairly serious bruising on her left cheek.”
Travis swore at the thought of it even though he knew that in the scope of things, that assault was minor.
“Unfortunately, that wasn’t the worst this piece of sludge did to other women. Besides the concussion, she has dozens of wood splinters in her hands—and yet none of that stopped her from getting away.”
He pushed the file at Travis. “She’s spent more time in the hospital for psychiatric evaluation than anything else.”
A phone rang.
Travis looked at the picture on the file as James took the call. The dark-haired beauty who had smiled with lighthearted innocence for the photo was frozen in a moment in time when she couldn’t imagine the nightmare that was to follow. Since the picture was taken, she’d come close to death. The thought made him feel slightly sick.
“Just a heads-up,” James said as he put the phone aside. “She’s insistent that she return to work as soon as possible.”
“What?”
He looked up, shocked that that would even be a consideration after everything she’d been through.
“I’ve suggested at least a two-to-three-weeks’ wait on that.”
Travis said nothing. There was nothing to say, for in reality, he had no say. It was up to the FBI. For him it was an assignment, nothing more. The only thing he knew was that everything about this case was troubling.
Her attacker, Eric Solomon, the man now known as a serial killer who had silently hunted, killed and raped women across the country, was behind bars. Something about the emergency call had triggered an instinctive reaction by the detective in charge that night. He’d felt something off and deployed unmarked vehicles without sirens or flashing lights. The victim had been taken to the hospital while officers had converged quietly on the deserted house where the victim claimed she’d been held. The perpetrator had been caught when he’d returned minutes later and had been unprepared for what awaited him. There, the baby-faced man had been surprised by the police presence. He’d turned to run and been caught and arrested on the spot. The evidence had almost been too easy. The victim’s DNA was lodged under his fingernails and strands of her long hair were twisted around his ring finger like a trophy. Once the victim had identified him in a lineup of photos, it was clear that they had their man. He was now awaiting trial.
“In all my years, I’ve never dealt with this kind of situation,” James said. “The perp is behind bars and the victim is still terrified for her life. She thinks there’s another killer out there.”
“Could it be a delusion brought on by post-traumatic stress?”
“We’re definitely considering that possibility. In fact, that is why she was held in the hospital a day or two longer than necessary,” James said. “Right now, as you know, our biggest concern is that she might be saying one thing and planning another. I think her talk of going back to work is only a ploy to let us believe she’s alright. Truth is, I think she’s far from it.”
James glanced at his phone as it dinged a message and pushed it away. “I’ve never seen a victim escape something as dire as she did in quite the way she did. She has a mind of her own and where that might lead her...” He leaned forward. His blue eyes stood out more than usual against his tan complexion. “I can’t take any chances with this. We need her on the stand. But...” He paused. “This witness appears to have more guts than any I’ve seen before.”
Travis had to agree with that. For the woman had literally clawed her way out of a closet and broken out through a boarded-up window by crawling through an impossibly small opening. Then, she’d run barefoot down a dark, neglected alley to safety. And when she’d been brought in, James had told him how deadly calm she’d been. There had been no tears or hysterics, only a shaky voice as she’d reported what happened. The tears had come later according to hospital staff but even then, there’d been few. According to the file, and James had confirmed it, she’d been solid in her testimony that would incriminate the perpetrator of one of the worst serial killer rampages the country had seen in recent years. She was a five-star witness and had identified Eric Solomon from a picture lineup presented to her while she was still in the hospital. But there was only one glaring glitch, and it was the fact that she claimed to have heard two voices—both she believed to be men and both with the intent to hurt her. That belief was a glitch that cast a shadow on both her stability and her believability. It was her insistence, with a complete lack of supporting physical evidence, that the killer hadn’t worked alone.
The covers were twisted, some on the bed, some off. The room was still in darkness as Kiera fought with a sheet and finally reached over and flipped on the bedside light. She’d thought she’d heard a sound, something out of the ordinary. Seconds passed. She clutched the sheet as the fridge fan clicked on. The soft whirring seemed loud in the night silence.
“It’s the fridge,” she muttered as if saying those words would reassure her, as if they would change everything.
It was her second night back in her own home, in her own bed. It had been over a week since the attack. When she’d been discharged from the hospital, she’d been more than ready to pick up her life where it had left off. Except, that wasn’t the way it was. The condo she called home no longer felt like one. The funky, crafty style she’d created by shopping flea markets and craft sales, the style that had felt so completely her and so homey, felt foreign. She’d been on edge since she’d come home. And a police officer had been assigned to patrol her area. He made a regular pass of her property, checking in often and would continue, the officer had assured her, until a US marshal took over. While she wasn’t under twenty-four-hour surveillance, she was promised a patrol car in her neighborhood and a regular
