Heart of Ice Read online

  Whenever things got to be too much, when someone yelled “Freak!” at Joey from a passing car, or he lost another job, well, there was always fire.

  He stuck to small brush fires, out in the woods, along the edges of old highways. Sometimes an abandoned barn or house, falling in on itself. But never anyplace where people lived.

  Then Sissy paid him to go one step further. It woke something in him, the desire to burn something bigger and better. Which was why Joey was standing with his gas can outside a half-constructed home in unincorporated Washington County, some McMansion that would sit in solitary splendor on five acres.

  The phone rang in his pocket. Joey nearly jumped out of his skin.

  “Hello?”

  Sissy said, “I need to see you again.”

  “Why?” He liked the idea of Sissy, but the reality of her made him nervous. “That lady’s house was a total loss, just like you wanted.”

  “Yeah, but that’s just her house. Meanwhile, she’s probably raking in thousands in insurance money. I ended up doing her a favor. Instead of messing up her life, I made it better.”

  Joey didn’t like the way this was going. A nervous jolt went through him when he heard her next words.

  “I’ve been thinking. You need to help me find a way to stop her. Permanently.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Channel Four

  Channel Four,” Jenna Banks said into the headset while underlining a passage in Cash In: How to Make More Money and Get the Promotion You Deserve. It was ridiculous that Channel Four’s management still insisted she give the receptionist her lunch breaks. Jenna had been at the station for nine weeks now, finishing her degree in broadcasting and mass communications. Marcy, the receptionist, had been at the station for twenty-five years—longer than Jenna had been alive! It was clear that Marcy wasn’t going anywhere. But Jenna? Jenna was destined to be a star.

  “I need to talk to a reporter about a murder,” a man’s voice said. “A murder that might be committed.”

  Dropping her book, Jenna grabbed a piece of scratch paper. “I’m a reporter.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Multnomah County Courthouse

  Twenty years earlier

  Mr. D—Sissy had taken to calling her lawyer, Mr. Dowell, that— said they got lucky when Judge Irvine was assigned to her trial. He said that the judge would be fair.

  Even though Sissy wanted to dress in a way that showed off her figure, she regretfully decided that her best move was to appear younger than she was. Even though she was now thirteen—a teenager, nearly an adult—she put on a loose cardigan over a dress that hid her curves, wore no makeup, and pulled her hair into pigtails. She worried that the pigtails might be over the top, but a quick look in the mirror reassured her that they were the perfect touch.

  She had thought the courtroom would be full, but instead there were just a handful of people. Mr. D whispered to her that, for her own good, the court was keeping the event from being a spectacle.

  Sissy had dreamed of flashbulbs and shouted questions.

  She quickly grew bored with the proceedings. When they were talking about her, it was interesting. When they were droning on about the law, it was totally not interesting.

  “This is a child,” Mr. D told the judge.

  That was what Sissy had decided was her best move after he had leapt out of his chair when she touched his thigh, sputtering, eager to get away from her. She had begun to act younger and slower, sometimes even lapsing into baby talk or calling him “Mithter D.”

  “Elizabeth was easily led by investigators to agree with whatever they said. In fact, this girl has learned in her short, sad life that the safest thing to do is to please the adults around her.”

  When the witnesses testified, Sissy grew tired of their tears. She was the real victim. The best part was when she got to speak directly to the judge. Sissy could cry on demand. She was good at crying. Very good. She could say the right words and do the right things. And she was sure that all of it would add up to her going free.

  She watched the smallest changes in the judge’s expression, when his pupils constricted or dilated, or his nostrils flared, and adjusted her story accordingly. She made the tears fall from her eyes. But not too many. She didn’t want her nose to run and ruin how pretty she looked. How dramatic.

  She was so sure that the judge liked her that when he found her guilty it came as a horrible shock. The floor felt like it was falling away from beneath her. She put her head on the table.

  That afternoon, Mr. D told her that everything was not lost. As part of sentencing, he would explain to the judge that there were mitigating circumstances and she deserved leniency. Sissy grasped at the idea and held on for dear life. She had already been in custody for weeks and weeks. That should be enough.

  When they gathered again in front of the judge five weeks later, Mr. D said, “Judge Irvine, while we didn’t plead ‘not guilty by reason of insanity,’ there are clearly mitigating circumstances. Not only does this child lack the intellectual or moral capacity to understand the consequences of her actions, but the records show that she has also been horribly damaged. The state failed to care for her, failed to protect her. Instead, it let her go from one terrible situation to the next. Even before she was born, Elizabeth was unwanted. Her parents married only under duress when her mother was six months pregnant. The marriage was so volatile and violent that her mother repeatedly abandoned Elizabeth at her grandmother’s when she was a child. Her father beat her with a belt as well as his fists. She may well have brain damage. And then when Elizabeth was seven, she saw something no one should ever see, especially not a child. She saw her father kill her mother and then turn the gun on himself.”

  He paused to let the weight of his words settle in. Elizabeth wished she could stuff her fingers in her ears, close her eyes, and not have the images replay behind her lids.

  “Then she was forced to live with her grandmother, who made it clear she saw Elizabeth as a burden. As a result, this girl was brought up in a toxic environment, one where lashing out before you yourself could be hurt was the norm. The court should not compound the wrongs the state has perpetuated against this girl by punishing her for acts that to this day she does not understand. She bears the burden of a tragic past and present—help her find the bright future she so deserves. If any child deserves leniency, Your Honor, it would be Elizabeth.”

  Next, the psychiatrist said that Sissy had not been able to tell right from wrong when the bad things happened, that she had been incapable of knowing the nature of her actions. Listening to him, Sissy felt a surge of pride. She had done a good job of letting him think that.

  She could not—would not—be labeled crazy, any more than she would embrace being called retarded. But pleading temporary insanity seemed like the best of both worlds. Basically, it would prove that it wasn’t her fault.

  Mr. Whitlock, the prosecutor, seemed personally insulted by the psychiatrist’s words. When he looked at Sissy, his upper lip curled. “We need to think of all the would-be Miss Hewsoms out there. Harsh sentencing acts as a deterrent to teens who are considering committing crimes. Light sentences don’t teach teens the lesson they need to learn: if you commit a terrible crime, you will spend a considerable part of your life in jail. I’m confident that as the court looks at all of the facts and circumstances, Miss Hewsom will be held responsible for her actions.

  “Judge Irvine,” Mr. Whitlock continued, “in this state, we have a strict legal standard required to prove insanity at the time of the crime. Was Miss Hewsom unable, at the time of her crimes, to distinguish between right and wrong? No. The defense has not presented clear and convincing evidence to prove insanity was a mitigating circumstance. In fact, Miss Hewsom was capable of lying and covering up evidence of her crimes directly after committing them.”

  Judge Irvine steepled his fingers. “I have listened to the arguments. Mitigating circumstances were already taken into account in my initial ruling that Elizab
eth Hewsom should be tried as a juvenile instead of as an adult. It is clear, however, that Miss Hewsom requires specialized care. She is a deeply, deeply troubled individual. But rehabilitation could give her a second chance to overcome both the wrongs that were done to her and the grievous wrongs she herself has done. In view of that, the court has decided to send Miss Hewsom to the Spurling Institute, a private institution that has had great success in treating people who lack values and morals to guide them.”

  It took a few seconds for the truth to settle in. Sissy had thought the trial would end with her going free. But instead she would be locked up for years. She realized she had made a mistake. Mr. D hadn’t wanted to help her get free. He wanted to get her away from him.

  Which wasn’t the same thing.

  CHAPTER 19

  Channel Four

  Cassidy looked into the camera. “Tonight, Channel Four offers you an exclusive interview with the accused Want Ad Killer, Colton Foley. And his fiancée, Zoe Barrett, opens up about her ordeal.

  “Colton Foley is being held without bail in the Multnomah County Jail. Foley is twenty-three and a medical student at Oregon Health Sciences University. He is charged with robbing and killing three women who variously described themselves in want ads as masseuses, exotic dancers, or strippers. Two other women who were robbed, but not killed, have also come forward.

  “He allegedly contacted women through the ‘Meetings sought’ section of the local alternative weekly.” Cassidy held up a section of newsprint. “Here’s how one ad he answered read: If you’d like to spend some time with a sweet blonde, give me a call.”

  Brad Buffet, the anchor, asked, “Do authorities suspect that there are other victims out there, Cassidy?”

  She nodded. “The assistant United States attorney has posted an ad in the weekly alternative paper—ironically, the same paper believed to have been used by the killer to hook up with the three dead women. The ad says something like Please come forward if you were a victim. But will they? It’s quite possible they were doing something illegal. We may never know how many more victims are out there. But one young woman says that there is yet one more victim in this story: Colton Foley himself. She is Zoe Barrett, Foley’s fiancée.”

  This part of the story was a “donut,” with Cassidy speaking on either side of a piece of video that had been put together beforehand. In the video, she sat in an upholstered chair while Zoe Barrett, a blandly pretty woman with honey-blonde hair, faced her on a matching couch. With her big eyes and snub nose, Zoe looked younger than her twenty-three years. But her words were direct and her tone unwavering.

  “Your fiancé, Colton Foley, is facing accusations that he is the man behind what have become known as the Want Ad Killings,” Cassidy said. “How do you feel about that?”

  “Unfortunately, Cassidy,” Zoe said, “you were given wrong information, as were the rest of the press and the public. Colton is completely innocent of these trumped-up charges.”

  Cassidy offered her a patient smile. “Pardon me for saying this, but isn’t that what anyone in your situation would say?”

  “You think I wouldn’t know?” Zoe straightened up. “I met this man three years ago when we volunteered at a food bank. We’re both training to be doctors. We’ve lived together for the past eight months. I know Colton’s character, inside and out. He is a kind, gentle, caring man, not some sick killer. The police have got the wrong man, but they don’t want to admit it. Colton was set up.”

  “But why would they do that?” Cassidy persisted. “What would be their motive?”

  “Cash,” Zoe said bluntly. “We’ve heard that a Portland police officer has been making the rounds of the tabloids, trying to make big bucks off of selling Colton’s story.”

  Was it possible? Sure, one cop might want to leak something to the media in the hopes of getting an under-the-table payment. But a whole task force focusing on the wrong man? The reasoning seemed thin, even specious. The girl was grasping at straws, but she was too close to see it.

  “All of his friends and family would tell you the same thing: Colton is a kind, intelligent man,” Zoe said. “We need to get this travesty of justice reversed as soon as possible. Colton and I still plan to marry in September and share a wonderful, meaningful life together.”

  Cassidy recognized a rote response when she heard one. The last thing she wanted was a well-rehearsed speech that might—and probably would be—given to every reporter who got close enough. Trying to build a bridge between them, she softened her voice. “It must be terrible for you.”

  Tears welled in the young woman’s eyes. “My fiancé is in prison on some trumped-up charge, and I am being hounded everywhere I turn. The reporters, the shouting, the questions from the police … it’s all been too much. The man who is being portrayed in the media is nothing like the man I know. The man I’ve known for three years.”

  “I know this is awkward,” Cassidy said carefully, “but what about those plastic restraints found in your condo?”

  Zoe colored and put her hands to her face. “My private life is private. All I can say is that those were part of my private life, the life I shared with Colton. The only woman those were used on was me. With my consent.”

  “Uh-huh,” Cassidy said noncommittally. She made a mental note to point out the wording to Allison and Nicole. Despite what Zoe had said earlier at the press conference, it sounded like the restraints had been Colton’s idea. Had he wanted to try them out on a more willing victim before he took them on the road? Or had he tried to spice up his home life by mingling in some of the elements of his acted-out fantasies?

  Zoe sighed. “I really don’t want to say anything further. Just that I love Colton, and I know he will be proven innocent of these charges. And that’s up to the courts to decide. Not the media. Not the court of public opinion. The justice system. And that’s all I’m going to say.”

  At that point, Cassidy had known she couldn’t press the young woman any further. “We wish you the best of luck.”

  Back in the studio, she introduced the second segment, the one with the accused killer himself. The one that, to her at least, revealed the truth behind the mask.

  “And finally tonight, in this exclusive interview with Channel Four, Colton Foley speaks out for the first time from inside the Multnomah County Jail. We spoke to him earlier this afternoon by telephone.”

  The screen switched to a graphic that read Accused Want Ad Killer Speaks Out and had images of a gun, a high-heeled shoe on its side, a set of plastic restraints, and a piece of torn newsprint.

  In a series of text messages, Cassidy, Allison, and Nicole had brainstormed about the best way to catch Foley in a lie. In the end they had decided that his vanity was his weak spot. From the outside, Foley looked perfect. And if he was a sociopath, as Nicole believed, then he could not stand to be thought of as anything less than perfect.

  Now the video switched to a still photo of Cassidy on the left side of the screen and on the right a photo of Foley taken at his arraignment. In Cassidy’s experience covering the crime beat, most first-time offenders looked terrible at their arraignments, with bruised eyes, uncombed hair, and rumpled clothes. Foley looked like a model—or a politician—in a dark suit, white shirt, and red tie.

  Cassidy’s voice began the segment. “First of all, Colton, is there anything you’d like to say to Channel Four’s viewers?” On the bottom of the screen, the words appeared as they were spoken.

  “My heart goes out to these women and their families. I pray that they will find the perpetrator.”

  “So you’re saying you’re innocent?”

  “Of course.” His tone was relaxed.

  “Then why did the police arrest you?”

  “I suspect it’s on the basis of a faint resemblance between me and the real killer, whose image was caught on the hotel surveillance tape. You have to look at this logically, Cassidy. The police were desperate. The public was demanding that they solve this crime. So they brought
me in and hoped that all the attention would scare the real killer off.”

  “Did you know you were the subject of a manhunt?” Cassidy asked.

  “Like everyone else, I had been reading about the situation in the Oregonian. Of course, I didn’t think anything of it at the time when the police said they were looking for a young man with dark hair who was about five foot eleven. I mean, that could be anyone! But then my family said the police had been by asking leading questions about me. So I knew. I orchestrated my own capture, for my family and fiancée’s sake. They feared, with reason, that I would be killed. So I made sure that I was spotted in a public place where there were plenty of witnesses.”

  “Are you saying you were afraid the police would harm you?”

  It seemed that Foley’s theory was that if you threw enough dirt, some of it was bound to stick.

  “I’m saying that there was a lot of pressure on them to solve the case. There’s clearly been a rush to judgment. And if I were dead, it would save them having to put me on trial. It would save them having to admit that they got the wrong guy. Look, Cassidy, I can’t say much more. I need to save it for my defense. But I can tell you this—I am completely innocent of these accusations.”

  Cassidy got ready to dangle the bait. “You know, Colton, I interviewed a well-known profiler today, and she said that the type of man who would commit these acts would feel powerless and afraid most of the time. Basically, she said the person who did this is a coward. The type of person with no real friends and no real relationships. The only way he could get love is to buy it.”