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Dangerous Exposure

By Dianna Shuford

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“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” Romans 12:21 NKJV

Chapter One

Some days death struck with wicked precision, and today proved no different.

Addison Parker sighed when she met the empty gaze of the woman in the backseat. Glassy, vacant brown eyes that would never know the joys of life again. Sable hair that would never be styled or fussed over again. A daughter, sister, friend who would never be there for her loved ones again. The young woman identified as Lacy Dalton, abandoned inside the rust-colored Chevy Equinox, had been death’s most recent victim.

The black expanse of the abandoned Union Station Mall’s asphalt parking lot undulated in Atlanta’s summer heat as Addison tossed her rope of braided hair back and stood beside the hearse-like crossover SUV. Her gut burned as death’s odor filled her nose. “Hey, McBride, you find anything back there?”

Her partner, RJ McBride, stepped away from the rear of the vehicle, sweat rolling down his deep bronze cheeks. “Nothing other than a spare tire and roadside emergency kit. Probably belonged to the victim, but processing the items will tell us for sure.” He shook his head. “No blood stains, no loose fibers, and no identifying articles except those belonging to the victim we found in the front of the vehicle.”

“Yeah, but let’s process it anyway, just in case.” She flexed her gloved fingers and raised her eyes toward the burn of the sun’s rays. “Likely drug overdose?” Although she knew his answer, she needed it confirmed.

“Yep, and her hands were bound.” He pointed to the ligature marks around the victim’s wrists. “Looks like rope or twine was used based on the marks.”

“Forced overdose?” The words slid through tight lips.

McBride grimaced. “Speculation at this point, but, yeah, I think that would be a good guess.”

She swiped an arm across her heated forehead. “The murder could’ve happened elsewhere and the body dumped here.”

“If we’re lucky, the crime lab will find something we’ve missed when they process the car.” McBride stepped back as the medical examiner and a technician prepared the body for transport.

Addison took a deep breath as every team member followed strict procedures on scene. Maintaining objectivity was a must. Crime scenes left no room for luxuries such as sympathy. Still, she would pray for the Dalton family tonight, and do everything possible to solve this case, to bring them answers, to fight for the victim.

God willing, she would bring Lacy’s killer to justice.

She swallowed hard and forced herself to focus on the vehicle once it was empty. She knelt by the passenger door and ran her hands over the carpeted floor, opened the console, and checked the seat edges. Her hands fisted. Nothing.

McBride nudged her foot with his own. “Parker, I think we’ve found everything.”

“Just one more check.” Lacy deserved a search that could lead to her killer.

“We’ve been thorough.”

“Once more to double check. For the victim. I have a feeling we’re missing something.” They’d come up empty already, but a third search could yield evidence they needed. She massaged the driver’s side carpet with her fingers, pushing under the seat, along the seat’s hardware.

Her hand slapped against a hard object. As she leaned further in, she squinted as the sunlight speared through the side windows cutting into her retinas. A small cell phone with a feather caught in the casing. She pulled a bag from her pocket and slid it inside with steady, gloved hands. She sealed and labeled the single piece of evidence.

McBride grunted as she handed the bag to him.

She stepped away from the vehicle and breathed in the fresh honeysuckle that lay beyond the parking lot. The unnatural quiet surrounding the abandoned mall seemed to mourn death. Even the I-85 traffic beyond the sentinel of tall, gangly pines emitted hushed rubber voices on the road’s pavement.

Over an hour on scene, and their sweep of the interior had produced little evidence, except a disposable phone with possible identifying numbers and information in it. Enough to provide hope.

“That’s it. We’ve found everything we’re going to find.”

“After three years of partnering, I can’t figure out how you always know when to keep pushing.” He shook his head. “Never saw that phone.”

“Gut feeling.” Addison shrugged. “It was stuffed into a depression near the seat railings. Like someone wanted us to almost miss it.”

Her partner scanned the open trunk. “Everything’s clean. Too clean.” He stepped back and removed his gloves.

“The phone isn’t much, but at least it’s something.” Each finger slide free of the gloves with a tug before she flipped her shades onto the bridge of her nose. “We’ve got to figure out how the perpetrator got the vehicle to this location without leaving any trace of discernible evidence. Let’s check of the grounds’ video surveillance. With luck the equipment will be in working order.”

“Maybe, if the owner wanted to protect the property. It’s worth checking out.” He rubbed his finger across his chin. “You know, this crime is similar to the Hewitt case we investigated. No conclusive evidence, possible drug overdose, death occurring the same day of the week. Do the victims have anything in common?”

“It’s worth checking out. We should look for similarities between the two crime scenes and analyze for a profile on the perpetrator if there are enough commonalities. This crime feels like it’s personal to the killer because of the methods and binding used. Looking at both files together could give us a better picture of what we’re dealing with.” She cocked her head, gaze steady, facts scrolling through her mind like a Rolodex flipping card after card.

“Yeah.” He released a long, slow exhale. “If we’re right, two murders, same methods used, could mean there’s a serial killer striking Atlanta’s Southside.”

She inhaled slowly with that thought. “If that’s the case, then we need to make sure we stop it before another woman dies.”

One more fact to fuel her need for justice.

# # #

Joe Vaughn rolled down his car windows in response to the southern heat since his car’s A/C stopped working. Two printed articles from the Atlanta-Journal Constitution lie on the passenger seat of his car. Rhonda Hewitt and Meredith Banks smiled up at him from the accompanying black and white photos next to the write-up announcing their deaths. One week before each murder, the same pictures had graced his column in The South Fulton Chronicle, proclaiming each woman an asset to her community.

Should his suspicions prove true, he could be linked to each murder. Could his articles be the catalyst for the women’s deaths or was it a coincidence?

He’d been trying to convince himself that his articles had nothing to do with the murders since stumbling across the AJC news articles last night. His third article on women serving their community appeared four days ago in Sunday’s edition. Would his latest article spotlight become a killer’s next victim?

When the scanner in his car shouted code ten-two this morning, Unit Henry, homicide, at the old Union Station Mall, he’d headed south of Hartsfield-Jackson airport without hesitation. The location reported, halfway between Lacy Dalton’s work place and her home, caused a cold knot to cramp his stomach. He’d never been good at ignoring his gut instinct, and now, he had one more reason to learn the victim’s identity. Once he had all the facts puzzled together, he’d take the information to the investigators with a possible link to solve the case.

He slammed his car door and took in the activity surrounding the abandoned vehicle. The bright yellow tape separated the many faces gawking at the police processing the scene. The movements inside the crime’s perimeter continued as he sauntered toward the activity, surveying the scene for every detail. His gaze stopped on a familiar car. The cold knot in his stomach tightened.

A police officer blocked his path. “I’m sorry, sir, you can’t proceed any further.”

He surveyed the officer from behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses as he resisted the urge to resettle his sports coat with a shrug. The garment had gained ten pounds in June’s excessive heat, which even at nine a.m. softened the black pavement underneath his feet. “Any news of what’s going on here?” Shocks of hair brushed his temple as a hot breeze tugged at the strands, keeping it from sticking to his sweat-dampened face.

“Not right now. A public statement will be given soon.” The police visor blocked all but the straight slash of the man’s lips from view.

“Surely, a few details can be spared? Can I talk to the investigator in charge?” Joe offered his best you-can-trust-me smile, and pulled out his press ID. He had to get the details of this crime scene and find out the victim’s identity.

As if on cue, his cell phone vibrated against his hipbone. Probably his editor wanting to know why the Community Fair piece wasn’t finished.

“Everyone is busy. You can find out the latest information when the public does.” The uniformed officer folded thick arms across a burly chest.

“Not even a few small details?” He stuck his hands into the pockets of his pressed chinos to hide his balled fists.

“Just a moment.” The officer headed toward the activity surrounding the vehicle.

Let the authorities find the guilty. Let the police do their job. Pray for justice. His stomach twisted and roiled as if he sat on a speeding roller coaster, but he ignored the faint voice he’d buried with his mother a year ago.

The authorities didn’t always find justice. Hadn’t found it for his family seventeen years ago. The prayers he’d voiced as a twelve-year-old hadn’t been answered when his father’s murderer was never found either. The community’s innocent deserved to have someone looking out for them.
Details, impressions, descriptions. Watching the investigators and the medical examiner team, he noticed spiky brown hair and a pale hand belonging to the victim. Not enough to know if it was Lacy.
Flashing red and blue lights warned onlookers away and ‘do not cross’ tape kept the curious public at bay. Kept those who sought the confidential information at a distance. Those yellow streamers wouldn’t stop him from uncovering the truth. A truth he intended to share if his suspicions were verified.

Mall security stood on the far side of the scene, speaking to a second uniformed officer. A police photographer and two plain-clothed investigators worked the area with single-minded intensity. The burly, uniformed officer delivering the request stopped beside the woman searching the car’s passenger side interior.

Her meticulous movements and attention to detail probably had every city district attorney clapping in glee when her processed crime scenes stood firm against cross-examination of defense attorneys. His shoulders contracted at the thought of another family paying the price for sloppy investigative work.

The brunette glanced in Joe’s direction and arrested his attention. Her petite frame drew his eye first, but the long hair secured in a braid that ended midway down her back kept him looking. He ran a hand across his damp forehead.

With a quick shake of his head, he refocused on his objective at hand. He pulled out his vibrating cell phone and glanced at the caller ID. Yup, it was Chuckie. He pressed the silent button, and slid the phone back into his pocket.

Later. He’d deal with the boss later. Right now, he had to prove Lacy Dalton remained alive.

# # #

Addison shifted and nodded at Darrin Gray, the department’s part-time photographer, moving around the cordoned off area with an expensive Nikon camera and the jaunty stride that defined the college student. “Hey, Darrin. Almost finished?”

“Yeah. A few more shots should do it.” Darrin’s blue-black hair sported a choreographed mussed-look. His wrinkled cargo shorts, T-shirt, and sockless Sperry footwear completed the photographer’s trendy twenty-something appearance.

“Good. Let’s get this crime documented and wrapped up.” She turned at the tap on her shoulder. “Yes, Officer—,” she glanced at the uniformed officer’s badge, “Strickland?”

“Man on the left asked to speak with someone in charge. Showed a press ID.” The brawny man crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

Addison raised a brow. “Did he give you a reason he needed to speak to someone?”

He shook his head. “Nope. Just keeps insisting there should be details that can be given out, and if I couldn’t do that, maybe whoever was in charge could.”

She glanced over the officer’s shoulder at the man in question and gritted her teeth. White male, sandy brown hair, about six feet, early thirties. She knew the type, and she had learned the hard way not to trust them. A Golden-boy wannabe. One more interference keeping her and McBride from getting this scene wrapped up. Nope. They had a job to do, and nothing would keep them from completing their task.

She moved in the stranger’s direction as the sun reflected a silver starburst sliding into the man’s pocket. Interesting. Scanning for a visible weapon and noting the press identification he wore, Addison stopped before him. “Can I help you?”

Golden-boy flashed a bright, white smile before jerking his head in acknowledgment. “Officer. Or should I say detective?”

“Detective.”

The corners of his mouth dropped at her curt tone. “Excuse me. Detective.” He inclined his head, and then waved an arm in the direction of the activity surrounding the vehicle. “This is a murder investigation, is it not?”

“I'm sorry. Until the official press release the information gathered is confidential, Mister—”
His grin returned as if the flash of pearly whites were his Pied Piper instrument of choice. “Joe Vaughn, reporter for The South Fulton Chronicle.”

She crossed her arms when he held out his hand. Just what their investigation did not need. A reporter hindering their initial investigation. Her gaze raked over his too-loose jacket covering a lanky frame and button-down shirt tucked into pressed pants. He appeared honest with his pretty-boy face and hair brushed back to curl against his collar. Innocent, yet behind that façade lurked an aura that proclaimed him a man that had seen too much of life’s harshness.

“Um-hm.” Addison rubbed a trickle of sweat from her neck. “Did you have information pertinent to this investigation, Mr. Vaughn?”

He glanced across the empty parking lot toward the vehicle, and then returned his gaze to her. Dark lenses met dark lenses in the morning blaze of sunlight. “I didn’t say that.”

She pushed her hands on her hips, flipping her A. P. D. vest aside so her badge was visible. "Why exactly are you asking to speak with me?"

“That should be obvious detective. I report on events for the community’s awareness. Making sure others know how to protect themselves, how we as a community can protect them, is part of my job.” Golden-boy shrugged. “They need to know the details of this crime so they can take the steps necessary to protect themselves.”

She glanced at her watch. Less than ninety minutes on site. Allowing confidential details of this scene to become public could jeopardize their case and cost additional innocent lives. That wouldn’t happen at her crime scene.

This situation called for a tactful response. Diplomacy, a necessary tool she hated.
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you, Mr. Vaughn.” Okay. So she wasn’t that good at it, but she got her point across.

“You don’t sound sorry.” His grin widened.

Was he flirting with her? Unoriginal, Golden-boy. She compressed her lips. “Officer Strickland,” she called without looking away from the fork-tongued serpent before her.

Strickland lumbered over. “Yes, Detective.”

“See that the crime scene borders are not violated and arrest anyone who crosses the established perimeter.” She tilted her glasses down, letting her gaze speak for her. “Good day, Mr. Vaughn.”
She strode back toward the quarantined vehicle and pulled out her note pad.

Joe Vaughn. Reporter. Checking crime scene. Questionable. Further investigation needed?

She rocked her pen between her fingers. What was he really doing here? There were other reporters wandering outside the crime scene area so why was he interrupting their progress on the investigation for details that would be given out during their official press release? She watched him melt into the crowd. When he looked back at her, she narrowed her gaze on him.

Did he know more than he was disclosing, or was he more involved than they realized?

# # #

Joe parked street side in the new subdivision and double-checked the address scribbled on a scrap of paper against the mailbox. Five-Nineteen Rosewood Court.

He’d tried all morning to reach Lacy Dalton. To warn her to be careful. To tell her not to trust anyone she didn’t already know. When he arrived at the crime scene this morning, he could tell the car’s make, model, and color had matched Lacy’s, but the dirt-smudged license plate couldn’t be read. That didn’t fit her fastidious personality. Perhaps Mike Griffith, Lacy’s fiancé, could provide more information.

Joe pushed himself toward the white and blue house. He needed an answer to questions whether he wanted to hear them or not. The truth needed to be discovered, and he could have stumbled into a puzzle where only he could fit the correct pieces together.

His steps faltered when the two detectives exited through the front door. He froze as they glanced at him and frowned in unison. Oh, boy. If they were speaking with Mr. Griffith, his worst suspicions could be true. His heart stuttered with the thought. What could he tell the police? What facts did he know? Speculation and supposition weren’t cold, hard facts. They approached him as if he were a new species of animal they wanted to study—intent and alert.

“Well, our reporter’s back. I wonder what brings him across our path a second time today.” The detective that had shut him down that morning spoke to her partner, but kept a steady gaze on Joe. The detective’s direct approach was an admirable attribute, although inconvenient at the moment.
Even in the summer heat, her professional attire, a turquoise shirt tucked into belted black pants and black loafers, stayed fresh and neat after spending the morning in the sun. Her chestnut hair still trailed down her back in a thick braid, leaving her face unframed. While the partner stalked beside her in faded jeans paired with a collared polo shirt and ancient sneakers, his laid-back appearance made the woman even more appealing.

He gave them his easy-going smile and waited for them to reach him. “Hello, detectives. Perhaps we should introduce ourselves since we keep running into each other.”

“I do think we need your name.” The woman reached for her notepad.

The detective beside her studied Joe as if memorizing every detail. “I’m Detective McBride, and this is Detective Parker. And you would be?”

“Joe Vaughn. Reporter for The South Fulton Chronicle.” He stuck his hand out toward Detective Parker, swung his hand toward Detective McBride, then let it drop when his invitation was ignored. “You wouldn’t be following me, would you?”

“Is there a reason we should be following you?” Detective McBride inched further left, boxing Joe between the two.

Any war fought on two fronts never ended well for the middle man. I’m not losing this battle. “Nope. Just doing my job.” He angled himself to see both detectives. McBride continued to take in Joe’s every move, while Parker raised a brow.

“And, what job are you doing?” Detective Parker crossed her arms.

She’d used the arms-crossed pose before on him. He wasn’t intimidated. Couldn’t be intimidated. The truth was too important.

Joe squinted in the sun’s late afternoon glare. “Following up on an article I wrote a couple of weeks ago.”

“Topic?” Detective McBride continued to scribble on his notepad. His left-hand curled around his pen like Joe’s did when he wrote long hand.

“Local women who are community role models.”

“When was it printed?” The other man raised a brow at Joe.

“Last Sunday.”

Detective Parker stepped forward, her hands propped on her hips. “Why would this article bring you across our path for a second time today?”

“I don’t know.” He met her gaze.

How could he tell them why he was here when he wasn’t sure himself? Would they provide him more details if he offered what he knew? He took a deep breath, and opened his mouth. Closed it. His supposition could still be wrong. Mike Griffith could confirm Lacy was alive and well. He didn’t want to obstruct justice, but neither did he want to mislead it.

Detective Parker’s chin angled upward. “If we find that you know more than you’re sharing, you’ll see us again in an interrogation room.”

“I don’t think it will come to that, Detective.” His mouth tightened before he turned toward the front door and left the detectives behind.

Her implications that he would break the law brought out the urge to fight for his own honor, but right now he couldn’t follow that trail. In spite of the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, he had to follow his instincts. He had to know beyond doubt the identity of this morning’s victim even if it meant he wound up sitting in that interrogation room.

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