“What brought her to Montana?” Ann asked.
“Don’t know yet. Hoping to get a line on where she worked and stayed. I need coffee. You?”
“Always.”
He pulled into a drive-through and ordered two coffees with extra cream and sugars. He handed her a cup, settled his in the cup holder, and drove.
She pried off the lid, savoring the scent. “Bless you.”
“Looks like you didn’t sleep too well last night.”
She opted to treat herself and poured the two creams into her coffee. “I was up late trying to put together a bookshelf. I’m fairly certain the Swedes designed the unit to drive me insane.”
Out of the parking lot, he wound his way through town. “What happened to the extra sleep you were going to grab while Nate is out of town?”
“Best-laid plans.” She dumped in the sugars. “Turns out, I don’t sleep well when Nate’s not home.”
Out of habit, she pushed up her sleeves, inadvertently revealing the scratches left behind by Edith.
“What happened to your arm?” Bryce asked.
“I got into it with a woman who works at the university,” she said.
“She grabbed you?” His voice deepened with annoyance.
“She confronted me when I arrived home. She thinks I should leave town. I suppose she thought she was emphasizing her point.”
A muscle in the side of his jaw pulsed. “Why? You have every right to be in Missoula.”
“She thinks Elijah Weston is hanging around town because of me, which he is not.” She sipped her coffee, wondering why she was being so candid.
“Has Elijah Weston given you any trouble?” he asked carefully.
“Nothing explicit.”
“Meaning?”
“He has a way of showing up. He left a friendly note in my mailbox.”
“He was on your property?” Bryce’s jaw tightened.
“Yes. And he’s taken a volunteer job at the university. I’ll be seeing more of him.”
“You weren’t on his jury.”
“No, but I testified against him at the trial.” She blew on the hot coffee. “I’d rather talk about Dana. Do you have a picture of her?”
“Nice deflect.”
“I’m tired of worrying about me.”
He scrolled through his phone and pulled up Dana Riley’s mug shot. “Not the most flattering.”
Ann settled her cup in the holder, took the phone, and studied Dana’s picture. She had pale skin and light-brown hair. Her light eyes were downcast and her cheeks hollow. She handed the phone back to him. “When was that taken?”
“About three years ago.”
On a hunch, she opened the latest and greatest social media app on her phone. She had several, not because she enjoyed posting, but to stay abreast of the culture and trends, which some serial killers used to find victims. She searched for Dana Riley. None of the images attached to the accounts resembled their Dana.
“We get lots of seasonal workers that come to the state,” Bryce said. “Dana could have been working at a local bar for tips. The sheriff is talking to the area bars and restaurants first.”
“I’d also like to see where her body was placed,” she said.
“That can be arranged.”
He pulled into the parking lot of the regional forensic building, and after both were out of the car, he escorted her inside. He showed his badge to the officer on duty, and when the door buzzed open, he followed her into the small back offices. They were met by a midsize man dressed in a Montana Highway Patrol uniform. He had a round belly, muscled legs, and a thick mustache.
“Bryce,” the man said, extending his hand.
“Matt, good to see you.” He nodded toward Ann. “Matt Towzer, meet Dr. Ann Bailey. She’s consulting on the case.”
“Doctor of psychology, I hope,” Towzer said. “Whoever murdered Dana Riley has some odd views about murder.”
“Forensic psychology,” Ann said. “And you’re right about the killer. He’s not typical.”
“Last murder I worked was a barroom fight. Man knifed another. Two drunks fighting over a woman. But this case, hell, I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The curled, blackened images of the Helena victim, or rather Dana Riley, pushed to the front of Ann’s memory. The cuts around her face had been jagged and halting, an indication that the killer had not yet perfected his ritual.
“What can you tell us about her?” she asked Towzer.
“Bryce called me when he received the victim’s identity last night. I was in Helena, so I made the rounds of the local bars and restaurants. I showed her mug shot around for about an hour, and as luck would have it, a local bartender at the Red Horse recognized her picture. The guy’s name is Tate Andrews, and he said Dana worked there for about a month. She was popular with the customers, and then one day she did not show up for work. He said that thing happens all the time with seasonal workers. I told him more cops might be stopping by.”
“You said you also located Dana Riley’s truck?” Bryce asked.
“Once I had her name, I did a vehicle search and came up with the VIN for the Ford truck. I visited the two tow lots in Helena and spotted the truck. The VIN matched.”
“Good work,” Bryce said.
“Lucky I found it when I did,” Towzer said. “It was scheduled to go on the auction block in a couple of weeks.”
“Have you searched the vehicle yet?” Bryce asked.
“No. The vehicle just arrived here about an hour ago on a flatbed. The technicians are getting ready to work on the truck now.”
The trio took the stairs down to the basement level, where the vehicle bay was located. Impatience and excitement surged as Ann thought about searching the truck for evidence. More than ever, she wanted to catch this killer.
“Dr. Bailey, you know better than me,” Towzer said when they exited the elevator. “Why would a person do this to another? I have seen people mess up each other, but it’s generally in the heat of emotion. Whoever did this was cold and deliberate.”
“There are some people who feel no remorse,” Ann said. “It’s basically a faulty wiring system in their brains. And there are some who feel guilt, but simply can’t stop themselves. Their violence is a compulsion.”
“What’s driving this guy?” Towzer asked.
“I’m not really sure,” she said.
“Holy hell,” Towzer said.
“Now that we know the victim’s name,” Bryce said, “it’s a matter of backtracking her steps and figuring out when she might have hooked up with this person.”
The three made their way down a hallway to the loading bay, where they got their first look at Dana Riley’s Ford truck. The vehicle had Maryland plates, a rusted bumper, and worn tires that would not have made it through a Montana winter.
A forensic tech was photographing the truck, while another had opened the cab and was laying out the vehicle’s contents on a blue tarp. Included in the growing collection of items were a suitcase, gas cans, jugs of water, food wrappers, and a worn black leather purse.
Odd to see all the woman’s belongings on display. Whatever secrets Dana Riley had carried with her would soon be laid bare.