Silent Night, page 11
Nobody spoke for several moments. Sheila studied Sawyer, wondering why he was hiding his use of the app. He must've recognized the reference, so why not admit he had a profile on it?
"Have you been following the news lately, Jack?" Finn asked casually. "About the murders near the Great Salt Lake?"
"Can't say I have," Jack replied, shaking his head. "I don't watch much TV, and there's no Wifi out here."
"Let me fill you in then," Finn said, pulling out his phone and tapping the screen a few times. Sheila could see him pulling up a news article with pictures of the two victims' faces. "Two women were found dead near the lake, and we're trying to figure out if there's any connection between them and some of the people they interacted with on the dating app Birds of a Feather."
He handed the phone to Jack, who took it hesitantly. As Sawyer's eyes darted over the article and the images of the young women, Sheila studied his face for any sign of recognition or guilt. She saw only an expression of pity.
But was it real, or had he practiced for this very moment?
"Terrible thing," he murmured, handing the phone back to Finn. "But I don't know anything about it."
"But you do use the app?" Sheila asked.
Sawyer blinked at her. "I have used it, yes."
"According to the victims' profiles, you exchanged messages with both of them. Are you trying to tell us you don't remember talking to them?"
Sawyer glanced away, looking increasingly uncomfortable. His hands wrestled in his lap. "Okay," he finally admitted. "I talked with them."
Natalie leaned forward in her wheelchair, her piercing gaze fixed on Jack. "Did you ever meet either of them?" she asked.
Jack shifted in his seat, avoiding eye contact as he hesitated before answering. "Only Jennifer. Hadley and I didn't get any real traction."
Sheila narrowed her eyes, taking note of the beads of sweat forming on Jack's forehead. He was clearly more nervous than he'd initially let on.
"Why did you lie about using the platform?" Finn asked.
"I didn't want to admit that I knew them because—well, once I heard about the murders, I was afraid I'd be suspected of killing them."
"Understandable," Natalie said, studying him closely. "So, how did your date with Jennifer go?"
Jack sighed, disappointment clouding his face. "It didn't go well," he confessed. "We just didn't hit it off, you know? She wasn't what I expected, and I guess I wasn't what she expected either."
"So then what happened?" Sheila asked. "You just left her at the restaurant?"
He nodded, tight-lipped. "That was the last I saw of her."
Sheila studied Jack's face, looking for any hint of deception. His eyes darted away from hers, and she couldn't help but feel that he was hiding something.
"Listen," Finn said, "the more you lie, the more complicated this gets for you. It looks pretty damn incriminating, too."
"Look," Jack finally admitted, his voice strained, "I didn't want to tell you this, but the truth is, I made a move on Jennifer that night, okay? She rejected me. It caused a scene at the restaurant, and I was humiliated."
"But you didn't see her again?" Sheila asked.
Jack shook his head vehemently. "Not once."
Natalie spoke up. "Where were you early this morning, shortly before dawn?"
Jack's expression changed, becoming more resolute as he met Natalie's gaze head-on. "I was out hiking in the woods," he explained, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "I took some photos of the sunrise with my camera. I can show you the timestamped images, if you'd like."
Sheila felt a flicker of doubt, wondering if Jack's alibi could be that conveniently perfect. But as he produced his camera and scrolled through the images, her skepticism waned. The photos were indeed timestamped, showing that Jack had been miles away from the Great Salt Lake when the murders took place.
"If that's not enough," Sawyer continued, "there's an old man who lives just down the road. Hardly sleeps a wink. He knows every vehicle that goes by, so if I'd left this morning, he'd be able to tell you about it."
"We'll talk to him," Natalie said, though her tone made it clear that she wasn't particularly optimistic they'd learn anything. She rose, and Finn and Sheila did the same.
"Thank you for your time," Natalie said. "We'll reach out if we have any further questions."
"Please do," Sawyer said with a tight smile.
As they left the cabin, Sheila's attention was drawn to the darkening sky. Night would soon fall, giving the killer the perfect circumstances under which to hunt.
And they still had no idea who or where he was.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The precinct's fluorescent lights cast a stark, unforgiving glow over the disarrayed reports and statements strewn across the table in front of Sheila as she slumped in her chair. Frustration simmered below the surface of her usually composed demeanor. Jack Sawyer had been another dead end, and optimism was becoming increasingly difficult to cling onto.
"Back to square one," she muttered under her breath, raking a hand through her hair.
The room felt colder than usual, as if the building itself shared the team's collective disappointment. Natalie sat to her right, her wheelchair parked close to the table as she scanned the coroner's reports for anything they might have missed. To Sheila's left, Finn's fingers flew across his laptop keyboard, searching for connections that remained elusive. Their silence hung heavy in the air, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of paper or the soft tap of keys.
"Anything?" Sheila asked, almost without hope. She stared at the lab report detailing the nail found at the crime scene, but no new revelations emerged from the sterile words on the page. Just another piece of the puzzle they couldn't quite solve.
"Nothing yet," Finn said, not looking up from his screen. His tone was strained, hinting at the weight of the situation. Sheila knew he was trying his best, pushing himself beyond his limits to uncover the truth. But they desperately needed some lead, some reason for optimism.
"Keep looking," Natalie said, her voice steady despite the dark circles under her eyes. "We'll find something eventually."
Unsure what else to do, Sheila rose, crossed the room, and stood beside Finn. She appreciated his stoic determination, his drive to keep pushing himself regardless of what setbacks they faced.
"See, I've been going through the Birds of a Feather app," he said, gesturing at the screen filled with various user profiles. "I've been trying to find anyone else who might have met both victims, but so far, I can't find anyone—no one I can't disqualify by establishing an alibi through social media or bank records, that is."
Sheila bit her lip, mulling it over. "What if the killer used multiple profiles? Like a catfish?"
Finn nodded thoughtfully. "It's possible." He opened another window on his laptop, revealing a complex web of connections between app users. Sheila watched as he deftly isolated several profiles that had interacted with both victims. His fingers flew across the keyboard, tracing digital trails left by these mysterious personas.
"Take a look at these," he said, pointing out the similarities in certain profiles' messaging patterns. "They could be the same person…or they could just be random users with similar interests. Problem is, profile pictures can be taken from anywhere, so we can't rely on those to confirm anything."
Sheila's heart raced, her mind spinning with the possibilities. The killer could be hiding in plain sight, taunting them with every message sent.
But how were they supposed to find him?
Sheila turned away and began pacing the room. The dim fluorescent lights cast eerie shadows across the precinct walls, echoing her mounting anxiety. She couldn't shake the paralyzing fear that the killer would strike again before they could stop him.
"Hey," Finn said, glancing up from his laptop. "We'll catch this guy, Sheila. I promise."
Sheila looked at him, meeting his gaze for a brief moment before focusing back on the evidence scattered across the table. She knew he was trying to reassure her, but his furrowed brow and tight jawline betrayed his own concern.
"When?" she asked. "And who knows if he'll attack again? We're grasping at straws at this point. This whole lead could be nothing. What if we're just wasting our time with this app? What if all I did was steer us off course?"
"This is all part of the process," Natalie said patiently. "You do your best. Sometimes your leads pan out, sometimes they don't. Regardless of where this app leads us, it's something we need to investigate—there's too much smoke not to suspect a fire."
Sheila nodded, knowing her sister was right. Still, it didn't make her feel much better. She could only imagine the guilt she would experience if it turned out that this was just a rabbit-trail, and another young woman was killed because Sheila had nudged the investigation in the wrong direction.
Suddenly her phone buzzed in her pocket, breaking her concentration. It was a text message from Star.
Hey Sheila, the message read. accidentally brought your boxing gloves home after practice. I can give them to your dad next time I see him.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Sheila's lips. The simple, mundane nature of the text provided a brief respite from the relentless pursuit of the killer. Sheila typed a quick reply: No worries, Star. You're more than welcome to keep them.
She paused, her fingers hovering above the screen. She wanted to be a positive influence in Star's life, to provide the guidance and support that she herself had been so grateful for during her formative years. She reflected on the countless hours spent training under her father's watchful eye, the discipline and determination that had molded her into the woman she was today.
Maybe we can train together sometime, she added, pressing send before she could second-guess herself.
She sat back and waited to see if Star would reply. Seconds ticked by. No answer came.
That's alright, Sheila told herself. I'm sure she's got other things on her mind. Or maybe she just went to bed.
It was almost eleven p.m., after all, at least according to the clock on the wall. Sheila stifled a yawn and rubbed her eyes, trying to shake off the weariness that had settled in after hours spent sifting through evidence.
"Maybe we should call it a night," Natalie suggested, her voice breaking the stillness of the room. "We could all use some rest."
Sheila nodded, though she knew sleep would be elusive with her mind burdened by the weight of the case. "Yeah, you're right. Can I give you a ride home, Nat?"
"Thanks, Sheila. I'd appreciate that." Natalie began to gather her things, the soft scrape of her wheelchair against the linoleum accompanying her movements.
As they left the precinct together, the night air was crisp, stinging Sheila's cheeks as she helped her sister into the van. The silence of the drive was punctuated only by the hum of the engine and the occasional brush of tires against the damp pavement. Sheila's thoughts were a whirlwind, an unrelenting storm of fear and frustration that threatened to consume her.
Pulling up to Natalie's house, the porch light bathed the front steps in a warm glow. Natalie turned to Sheila, her dark eyes studying her sister's face with concern. "How do you think today went?" she asked.
Sheila exhaled as she stared out into the night. "I just...I wish we caught the killer, Nat. I can't help but worry that we're running out of time."
Natalie's hand found Sheila's, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I understand, Sheila. But remember, this is a process. We have to be patient and trust that we'll find the answers we need."
The weight of her sister's experience and wisdom brought a small measure of comfort to Sheila, though the unease still gnawed at the edges of her thoughts. She watched as Natalie rolled her wheelchair up to the front door. The porch light cast a warm glow on Natalie's face as she navigated the familiar path to her front door with practiced ease. Sheila watched from the driver's seat, her heart swelling with admiration for her sister's resilience and strength. She couldn't help but feel protective, a wave of determination surging within her.
"Take care, Nat," Sheila called out softly, her voice tinged with concern.
"Thanks, Sheila. Goodnight," Natalie replied, flashing a reassuring smile before disappearing inside her house.
Sheila pulled away from the curb, her thoughts racing as the van's headlights illuminated the empty streets. With each passing moment, it became increasingly clear that sleep would be a futile pursuit tonight. Instead, an overwhelming sense of urgency gripped her—she needed to do something, anything, to bring this killer to justice.
"Damn it," she muttered under her breath, gripping the steering wheel tightly. Visions of the crime scene photos flashed through her mind, their gruesome details seared into her memory. "I can't let anyone else suffer like this."
A sudden resolve took hold, fueling her actions as she made a sharp turn back toward the precinct. The thought of heading home and attempting to rest seemed laughable now because there was simply too much at stake. Time was running out, and as the younger Stone sister, Sheila refused to let her family down—or herself.
There must be something we're missing, she thought, heading back toward the precinct. The killer is using that dating app—I just know it. And if I have to go through all the profiles on there one by one to find him…I will.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sheila's eyes burned from the glare of the laptop screen as she sat hunched over in the precinct break room, searching through page after page of messages on Birds of a Feather. The quiet hum of the fluorescent lights and the ticking clock on the wall provided little comfort during the late-night hours. Her gaze darted from one face to another, each seeming to blur together like an indistinguishable sea of strangers.
The harsh scent of stale coffee lingered in the air, reminding her of the numerous empty cups scattered across the table. Her hand reached out for yet another dose of caffeine, but the cup came up empty. With a sigh, she pushed herself back in the chair, her back aching from slumping so long.
"Come on, Sheila," she muttered under her breath, "you've got to find him."
The precinct was eerily quiet at this hour, the buzz of daytime activity now replaced by a haunting stillness that seemed to amplify the weight of her responsibility. The linoleum floor gleamed beneath the flickering overhead lights, reflecting the shadows of empty chairs and abandoned desks. It felt as though she were the only soul left in the world, searching for answers in a sea of uncertainty.
Her mind drifted to Natalie – her older sister, the golden child, the kickboxing champion – now confined to a wheelchair after being shot in the back during their previous investigation. Guilt clawed at Sheila's insides, propelling her forward with a desperate need to make things right. If she could just find the killer, maybe it would alleviate some of the blame she carried for Natalie's injury.
"Focus, Sheila," she chided herself, forcing her thoughts back to the task at hand.
She let out a deep breath, steeling herself against the fatigue that threatened to consume her. No matter how tired she was, she couldn't let it stop her. She owed that much to Natalie.
She leaned in closer to the screen, willing herself to see something – anything – that might lead her to the killer.
she had spent hours poring over the messages sent to Jennifer Bainbridge and Hadley Ferguson, the two young women who had met their untimely deaths at the hands of a killer they very well may have met on Birds of a Feather.
Hey there, beautiful, read one message. Wanna meet up later?
"Ugh, another creep," Sheila muttered under her breath. She had reached out to the victims' families, explaining her intent to find their daughters' murderer. Although hesitant, they'd agreed to provide the login information for Jennifer's and Hadley's accounts.
Your eyes are like stars, said another message. You shine so bright.
"How original," Sheila snorted, rubbing her temples in frustration. She continued scanning through the barrage of messages, her eyes growing blurry from the blue light of the screen. Then, something caught her attention, making her sit up straighter.
Repent, for the hour of judgment is upon you, wrote a man named Mark to Jennifer. Death comes swiftly, and only the righteous shall be spared.
"Whoa," Sheila whispered, her heart beginning to race. She clicked on Mark's profile, her fingers trembling slightly. His profile picture was nondescript, but his messages were saturated with Biblical language about repentance, sin, and death.
Did you know that the wages of sin is death? another message from Mark read. Turn away from your wicked ways and embrace salvation.
Sheila stared at the screen, her stomach churning with unease. This discovery troubled her deeply, setting off alarms in her head. With each message she read, her sense of urgency intensified. Was this just some religious fanatic, or could he be connected to the murders?
Through fire and brimstone, the wicked shall be cleansed, Mark had written. Your time is running out, Jennifer. Choose wisely.
Mark hadn't sent any messages to Hadley. That didn't mean, however, that "Mark" might not be a fake identity, and that the real person behind the profile might not have an additional profile he'd used to message Hadley. Following this theory, Sheila decided to search Hadley's messages for any that sounded similar in tone to the messages Mark had sent.
After scrolling through a few pages of messages, she finally found one from someone named Tyler. Her heart pounded in her chest as she read the message, which was eerily similar to those Mark had sent Jennifer.
Your sins have mounted high, reaching the heavens, Tyler had written. Only by repentance can you hope to be saved.
"Damn," Sheila muttered, squinting at the screen. "Could Tyler and Mark be the same person?"
Her mind raced, connecting the dots. The language was too similar to be a coincidence. And if they were the same person, that would mean...
"Two profiles for one twisted individual," she said.
Determined to look deeper into Mark's and Tyler's profiles, Sheila studied their account details. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw the creation date—both accounts had been created on the same day.
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