Find Me If You Dare (The Chronicles of Elizabeth Marshall Book 2) (3 page)

                      
   Chapter Six

The briefing room was a large, open room with chairs in a few rows facing the front of the room. There were two portable dry-erase boards next to a desk up front. At the desk there was a computer and a multi-line phone. There were a series of windows high up on the wall, enough to let in natural light but without making the room too bright.

Logan had directed me to a chair close to the desk.
He tossed his still dusty jacket over the nearest chair and took a seat before the computer. He quickly logged in, pulled up the internet and was searching for the contact information for the St. George Police Department as well as the Washington County Sheriff’s Department.

As he dialed the numbers and asked to speak to the proper officials, he stretched the phone cord out as far as he could while he started organizing places, events and timelines on the dry-erase boards.

The room was eerily quiet with just the tapping of his fingers on the keyboard and the squeaking of the dry-erase markers. His voice, when he spoke to his fellow police officers, was solemn, respectful, sometimes urgent.

I sat there in somewhat of a stunned daze and watched him work. The events of the day were starting to catch up with me.
I felt completely exhausted in both body and spirit. A part of me still couldn’t believe everything that had happened.

When I woke up this morning, my life had finally seemed as though it was getting back to normal.
For months I had been on a frantic rollercoaster ride, doing everything I could to prove that my childhood best friend, Elizabeth Marshall, Lisbeth as I always thought of her, was innocent of her mother’s murder.

There had been a lot of circumstantial evidence against her. She had also had a very turbulent, confrontational, and sometimes violent history with her mother.
The authorities were convinced she had done it and seemed to have the proof to convict her. It didn’t look very hopeful. But she was so insistent on her innocence.

If that wasn’t difficult enough, she was awaiting her trial down at the state mental hospital. Lisbeth had been diagnosed with Disassociate Identity Disorder, or the more common term, Multiple Personality Disorder.
As a teenager she had been diagnosed with as many as twenty-seven different personalities. And I was uniquely familiar with almost every one of them.

Just when I’d thought that there was no way to prove that she didn’t kill her mother, I was able to help uncover some very important information with the help of Logan, a detective with the local police department.

We had uncovered what we thought proved that Lisbeth hadn’t committed the crime. Incredibly, the new evidence seemed to point to her mother Barbara killing herself while at the same time framing her daughter for her murder. Before I even had a chance to adjust to this new information, the local DA dropped the charges against Lisbeth.

Within hours, h
er doctor at the state hospital had her transferred to another treatment facility because of the publicity. I didn’t know what to think or what to do. He wouldn’t let me see or speak to her because he thought it would interfere with her new treatment and possible recovery.

I thought we were in the clear. I thought I had successfully helped to free an innocent woman.
Her doctor was treating her with a new medication, one that was supposedly integrating her various personalities. Although I had my doubts, he was certain she was on the road to recovery and was very capable of living an independent, productive life.

That was my reality until this morning. I thought that I had accomplished something important. I had helped prove her innocence. She was going to have a bright future before her.

That was when we found the metal box under the half-demolished trailer that had been her childhood home but was now no more than an empty shell of a murder scene. That was when we found the letter written by Barbara.

The letter explained that
Barbara had killed herself to protect others. She was convinced that her daughter was very dangerous, so she killed herself so her daughter would be found guilty and locked up for the rest of her life. Then there were the newspaper articles. One after another, one murder after another.

Lisbeth wasn’t just dangerous
she was possibly a serial killer.

Before we could even react, my first instinct was to contact her doctor. I had to convince him of how dangerous she was. But my efforts were useless. She had been on a group outing with other patients at her new facility and had slipped away and disappeared.

She was free now, loose. And she had left a frightening note on my windshield at the trailer park, letting me know that she was there, letting me know she was disappointed with me, that I had failed her. And I had. I had helped free her in a way.

If only I’d known what a danger she was. I would have done everything I could to keep her safely locked up, where she
couldn’t harm herself or anyone else.

A beeping
from my cell phone brought me back to the present. As Logan continued writing notes on the dry-erase board and making calls, I dug through my purse to find my phone.

There was a text waiting for me that had just come.

“Shower planning at Mom’s Sat. 10am.” It was from my sister, reminding me we were getting together this weekend to plan her baby shower. All those normal, happy family events seemed so foreign to me at the moment. It didn’t seem to connect with this bizarre circumstance I found myself in.

I noticed the symbols on my phone for a missed call and voicemail. That’s right,
I thought, my phone had rung while I was being fingerprinted. I looked at the number but didn’t recognize it. It was probably just a phone solicitor, I thought. I went ahead and dialed my voicemail just to be on the safe side.

The voice on my voicemail was deep and masculine. There was a raw, raspy edge to it.
It was sly, sinister.

“Caitlyn,” just the sound of my name spoken by that voice sent chills down my spine, “come and find me if you dare, people will die, do you care? Park City’s just a taste
. Don’t let this chance go to waste.”

My cell phone hit the floor with a thud. Logan turned just in time to see me double over in pain.

                   
  Chapter Seven

“What is it?” Logan froze in the middle of writing on the dry-erase board.

“Voicemail.” It was the only word I could get out. I felt as though I couldn’t move. The only thing I could do was point helplessly at my cell phone lying on the floor with one shaking finger.

“Caitlyn?” He must have seen the terror on my face. He dropped the marker he was using and came to my side.

“Voicemail.” I repeated. I gave myself a shake mentally and reached down to pick up the phone. I pushed the button to replay the message and all but shoved it into Logan’s hands. I didn’t want to hear that voice again.
Ever. “Listen.”

He put the small phone to his ear. His eyes widened as he listened to the message. He paused for just a moment then he was in full motion. He ran to the door of the
briefing room and called down the hall.

“Chief!” The police chief’s office wasn’t far down the hall. It took only a moment for him to appear and for Logan to start giving instructions. “Listen to the voicemail.” Logan gave him just a moment to hear the message before he continued. “Let’s see if we can get a trace on it. It was short, but we might be able to get a ping off of a local cell phone tower. See if we can find out who the phone
number is registered to. I’m calling Park City.”

Logan handed the phone off to his boss and was back at the desk, doing another internet search. As soon as he found the number he picked up the phone and dialed the Park City Police Department. He immediately identified himself to dispatch on the other end and began explaining why he was calling. He described the message on my voicemail without giving away too many details and asked if there had been any unusual
crimes that had taken place that day. He hit the speaker button on the phone so I could hear the answer.

“It’s been pretty quiet here today,” the female voice of the dispatch officer answered, “let’s see, there’s been one car accident this morning. There was one domestic, girlfriend angry at her cheating boyfriend. Oh yeah, and we had a few tourists from Australia that got a bit rowdy at a local restaurant and had to be escorted out. Other than that, it’s been a routine day here.”

“That’s good to hear,” Logan seemed only slightly reassured. “I’ll be sending you pictures and a description of our suspect. Hopefully, it’s an empty threat. But just in case, you may want to send out a BOLO.”

“Be On the Look Out,” Logan whispered to me as an explanation.

“Will do,” she answered.

“And let me give you my direct contact
information just in case,” he gave her his name again and his cell phone number.

As soon as he disconnected the call, he was back on the computer, downloading files and pictures, forwarding them to the Park City Police Department.

I couldn’t sit still any longer. I stood up and started pacing around the room. Logan was quick to pick up on my nervousness.

“Caitlyn, are you ok?” He asked while still quickly typing information in to the computer.

I paced a few more steps and took a deep breath before I could answer.

“I just feel so helpless,” I answered in frustration. “This is my fault. I help set her free. Now she’s on the loose and making threats. And here I am, stuck in a police station doing nothing about it.”

“Caitlyn,” he tried to sound reassuring, “we’re on top of it. We’re trained for it. The FBI might be coming in soon. They’ll start a task force if they think we need it. You just need to keep safe for the moment.”

I walked over to stand before the dry-erase board and looked over his notes.

“She’s angry with me, Logan,” I explained as I read the bits and pieces of information he was putting together, “but I don’t think I’m her initial target. She could have harmed me there at the trailer court this morning if she had wanted to.”

Logan paused for a moment and looked up at me.

“She could have,” he agreed, “but I was there, and a lot of other people. Maybe that kept her from approaching you.”

Before I could answer, the police chief was at the door.

“Anything?” Logan asked him as soon as he noticed him there.

“We have a possible ping from a cell tower in Morgan County,” he explained, a look of concern on his face.

“Morgan County is on the way to Park City,” I answered, starting to feel a bit light headed.

Logan and Chief Brickman exchanged a look between them. Whatever they silently communicated, Logan was on his feet in an instant and reaching for his jacket.

“Come on, Caitlyn,” he took me by the arm and started leading me towards the door. “We’re heading for Park City.”

                          Chapter Eight

Logan only stopped long enough to go through a local drive-thru to get us some fast food before he jumped onto Highway 84 and we headed up Weber Canyon. I glanced out the window at the jagged canyon walls with the tall pine trees scattered along the steep sides. The lazy Weber River followed the path of the highway.

“I know we haven’t had much time to talk with everything that’s happened today,” Logan quickly glanced over at me with a concerned look then back to the road ahead. “How are you holding up?”

I took a sip of the drink he’d bought and searched my feelings. I felt such a crazy jumble of mixed emotions. I was horrified as it kept echoing through me that I may be responsible for a very dangerous person being on the loose. I was still wrapping my mind around the fact that Lisbeth, my once best friend, could be the one that had committed those murders. I was also fearful of what she could now be capable of. How many other people could be in danger now, especially when her acts seemed to be so random? I voiced the last thought out loud.

“I’m worried Logan,” I looked over at this strong profile as he drove, “I don’t know what she’ll do next. All we have is a possible threat against an entire city.”

“Well, I hate to say it, but you’re probably the closest thing we have to an expert on Elizabeth Marshall.” The look on his face showed that he didn’t like the idea of putting me into that position but had resigned himself to it. “Do you have any idea what she might do next?”

“It depends on who’s in control,” I looked out the window as I began to mentally go through the different ‘family’ members and what they could be capable of. “Mick was at the trailer park. He’s mean, sly,
he was a cutter. She still has scars on her arms and legs from when he was in control and used to cut himself. Maxine, she’s raw and angry most of the time, but I don’t think she would be dangerous. Although, when I read about the truck driver up in Evanston, it sounded like something she could have done.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Logan nodded, as though putting a few more pieces of the puzzle together. “The reason why the murders were all so different, why they didn’t seem to fit the same profile, except for the symbol found at the scene. They could have each been committed by a different one of her personalities.”

“It’s very possible,” I agreed. “The thought of Vesper on the loose, or Slayer or Myst. It’s hard to even say what they could be capable of. And there could be more that I don’t even know about.”

“What do you mean?” Logan asked sharply. “I thought you knew all the personalities.”

I took a deep breath. It was so complex and so difficult to explain sometimes. There were so many different layers to exactly who Elizabeth Marshall was.

“Years ago, when she was first diagnosed, I knew all the different members of the family, I met almost all of them or were familiar with who they were. Since I started going back to the mental hospital and visiting her again, there were new personalities. I think they were recent splits. Like Myst.”

Logan’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Do you mean she can still keep splitting into more personalities?” He asked.

“It’s possible.” I answered with a tired sigh. “Mental health professionals believe that a split can be caused by a traumatic incident in the patient’s life. If Lisbeth is resistant to medication and she keeps having traumatic things happen to her, there is the possibility of new personalities emerging.” 

Logan let out a low whistle and ran one hand through his hair in
a gesture I was now becoming familiar with.

“How are we going to know what to look for?” The question was in general bu
t one I had been asking myself. “How are we going to know what to expect next?”

“We aren’t,” I answered bleakly, realizing what a monumental task we might have ahead of us.

Before either of us said another word, Logan’s cell phone rang. He hit the button for speaker and answered it.

“Detective Sawyer.”

“Detective,” the voice on the other end was deep and masculine, “this is Chief Zimmer from the Park City PD. Dispatch gave me your number. We’ve just had a call come in on a possible home invasion. The victim has been strangled.”