Pretty Girls Dancing(50)

Was Whitney DeVries the work of a copycat? Mark wondered. She’d been kidnapped using a very different process than any of the other victims. It could point to an offender who had perfected his strategy. Or it could mean a totally different offender altogether. “So you can’t estimate how long the killer keeps his victims? Because of the amount of time some of the victims went undiscovered?”

“The shortest interval between linked kidnappings has been three years. Piecing together the forensic anthropologists’ reports on the remains, I concluded he kept them all for months. Some for more than a year. But I don’t have a lot of answers for you, Agent Foster.” The man’s tone was tinged with defeat. “I spent a third of my career studying those crimes, and I’m left with more questions than answers. You take some of these cases with you when you leave.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “Up here. Especially the unsolved ones. This is the one that has always haunted me. I’m not ashamed to tell you that I used to have nightmares after another body was discovered. Didn’t make for a peaceful sleep. It got so bad that I came home one day, and Elizabeth had hung a framed print on the wall above our bed. One by that famous artist . . . the guy who painted the ballerinas.”

Mark shook his head. He knew nothing about art. The other man continued. “She used to tell me to focus on the picture before I went to sleep so I’d dream about it instead of the bodies. Darned if that didn’t help.” He stopped, looking a bit embarrassed about the admission before switching the subject. “The crime is about the offender. His wants. His needs. So what was it he wanted? And how did each of the victims ‘fail’ him? Because that’s what their deaths represented. Their failure to satisfy whatever it was that he desired from them. If you can answer that question, you’ll break this case.”

Put like that, solving this thing seemed even more insurmountable. Mark saw the man glance at the kitchen clock. Following his gaze, he was shocked to find it was nearly 9:00 p.m. “I’ve kept you long enough.”

He still had another forty miles to drive back to West Bend. Fortunately, he’d FaceTimed Nicky last night, because it was too late now. He had hours ahead of him with reports from local law enforcement and diving into the Willard file again. He rose. Sims didn’t object as he got up and ushered him from the room and down the hallway. When they reached the bedroom, the man reached out to close the door, but not before Mark’s gaze was drawn involuntarily to the print on the wall. A dreamy picture of dancers in filmy pink tutus, hands posed gracefully over their heads. A stark contrast to the photos of victims taken at the dump sites.

The door clicked shut. “I always promised myself that picture would come down when the killer was behind bars,” Sims said quietly. “That’s up to you and your team now.”

A tall order, Mark thought. He wondered what he’d use to ward off nightmares if they failed to find Whitney DeVries in time. They continued toward the door.

“Because of the proximity of the DeVries and Willard victims, we’re looking hard for any connections to the Willard case.” Mark pulled out the gloves he’d jammed in his pockets.

“As you should.”

“Was there anything that stood out to you about it? Anything that never quite gelled?” That happened with every investigation, Mark knew. Unanswered questions. The kind Sims had alluded to.

The man rubbed his face, for the first time looking weary. “Every investigator has his bugaboos. The things he or she can really get hung up on. Me, I was never satisfied with the alibis given by two of the people questioned. Of course, we know that not everyone can account for every minute of their day. Others live alone with no convenient corroborating witnesses. But it always leaves me with questions.”

“Do you remember who they were?”

Without hesitation Sims answered. “Of course. The Reverend Mikkelsen and Kelsey’s father. David Willard.”





Whitney DeVries

November 10

5:34 p.m.

“Whitney, dear.”

Dread snaked down her spine. Oh, God, that voice. That tone. Her body recognized it. Instinctively knew she was in danger.

She sat cross-legged on the stage as she’d been instructed. As usual she couldn’t see him in the darkness. He was little more than a shadow, standing well out of the way of the computer screen’s glow.

“Tell me, Whitney. Did you do your best today?”

Rule number six. Never give less than your best effort. Panic scampered up her spine. Tiny frissons of ice formed in her veins.

“It’s a harder routine,” she began, surprised at how shaky her voice sounded. It was impossible to concentrate on her answer when her body was already reacting to his words. Would she be whipped again? Or did the punishment get even worse with each infraction?

She began to tremble. Because she already knew that excuses wouldn’t work. They’d only make him madder. There was a whisper at the base of her skull. Stay strong. Smart. The next words formed without conscious thought. “But you’re right. I can do better. I will do better tomorrow. Thank you for reminding me. We have to be made aware of our failures in order to improve, right?” That had been one of Tami Jae’s sayings. She’d had a million of them when it came to critiquing her students’ dancing.

“That’s correct.” Was there a note of surprise in his words? “And very mature, Whitney. We all need to be open to criticism, especially when learning something new. But it’s not enough to say you’ll do better; you have to make a plan. What will be different about tomorrow?”