Weber I-94 Murders

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-63649-166-0
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 350 Seiten

Reihe: I-94 Murders

A killer is creeping along I-94 in Minnesota targeting couples who post bondage photos online. Clues are offered along the way to taunt investigators, which ultimately guide the thriller to a killer who is hiding in plain sight.

Frank F. Weber is a forensic psychologist specializing in homicide, sexual assault and domestic abuse cases. He uses his unique understanding of how predators think, knowledge of victim trauma and expert testimony in writing his true crime thrillers. He has profiled cold case homicides and narrated an investigative show on Oxygen. He has been the recipient of the President's Award from the Minnesota Correctional Association for his forensic work. His Award Winning books include 'Murder Book' (2017) 'The I-94 Murders' (2018) 'Last Call' (2019) and 'Lying Close' (September 2020). 'Burning Bridges' is set to be released (2021)

Autoren/Hrsg.

Weber, Frank F.

Leseproben

The Beginning

YESONIA HARTMAN, SIXTEEN

9:30 P.M., SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 2015

BUCKMAN, MINNESOTA

FALL WAS THE WORST TIME to have a sinus infection, and my misery was not going over well with my seventeen-year-old sister. Leah had a big night planned with some guy she’d been talking to online, and she wanted me out of the house. I didn’t blame her, but I couldn’t move without my head hurting. Leah was being such a bitch about it. We shared a bedroom, so I agreed to lock myself in the room for the night and not make a sound. Our parents were out with friends at the Bottoms Up Saloon. I called it the “twerk bar,” but my humor was lost on them.

Leah could afford to be a bitch, as people described her as a young Sophia Vergara, while I, on the other hand, was nicknamed “Sony,” and compared to a flat-screen television. Older boys had been after Leah since she was eleven, and she had fallen so hard for the last one she humiliated both of us by sending him a topless picture. Our parents would freak if they knew boys were now sending it around. If that’s what she had to do to get a guy, what am I going to have to do? And she was the one who was mature enough to have a cell phone. It wasn’t fair.

As crappy as I felt, I wasn’t going to miss creeping on Leah’s first meeting with Cully for anything. I was upstairs, so I crawled next to the banister. I figured if laid on my stomach, I could see down into the living room without being seen.

Leah was primping in a small mirror in the entry hallway—all chocolate brown hair and smooth, caramel-colored skin. Her simple beige dress contrasted with her colorful personality. There was nothing understated about her eye make-up. She went with her signature cat eye, which involved the use of Kat Von D’s raven black, super thick, winged eyeliner. Leah had amazing hazel eyes—dark brown from our Mexican-American mother and emerald green from our German father, splayed out in concentric circles—which she knew was her best feature. Mine, of course, were just a faded brown.

Over the next twenty minutes, I watched Leah text away on her cell phone, with no apparent reply. She was on crutches, due to a torn ACL. She had a large blue wrap from her ankle to her thigh that was supposed to keep her leg motionless. It was a bit of an ordeal, then, when she periodically got up and glanced out the window. After repeated trips to the window, Leah finally accepted she’d been stood up and sought solace the couch.

Buckman was a town one square mile in area. There were about fifty houses, which means our house number, 27222, had more than 27,000 unnecessary digits. My eyelids were getting heavy, but as I hoisted myself up to go in our room, I had to tease my sister a little. It’s an unwritten rule. She hated it when I sang my revamped version of “Please Come to Boston.” Because of that, I deliberately crooned, “Please come to Buckman for the springtime. You can sell your sweet corn on the sidewalk. And tan at a gas station where I’ll be working soon …”

Potato chips tumbled haphazardly to the floor as Leah scrambled for a shoe to throw at me. She yelled in warning, “You better hope I don’t catch you!”

When I saw she was half crying, I felt badly and apologized, “I’m sorry—I …” Realizing nothing I could say would comfort her, my voice trailed off. I got up and retreated to our bedroom. After first slamming the door to let her know I was in the room, I quietly reopened it—just in case. The front of my forehead throbbed in protest of my movements, so I collapsed on my bed and pulled a pillow over my eyes.

I must have drifted off, but I woke to hear Leah talking to someone downstairs. She was asking impatiently, “Why don’t you just step where I can see you?”

I pulled the pillow from my eyes and strained to hear the exchange. The voice of whoever she was talking to was muffled, so I could barely make out him saying, “My phone battery froze, so I didn’t get your texts. What do I need to do to prove to you that I’m Cully?” I realized the discussion was being held through our locked front door.

Leah remained silent.

I silently slid off my bed and snuck back to my prone position next to the banister, peering downstairs. Could a phone battery freeze at thirty-four degrees?

He spoke again, “Okay, I’ll tell you what I know. You tore your ACL dancing in front of the mirror.” In spite of the searing sinus pain through my head, I had to giggle over that. Leah had told everyone she was trying a rock-climbing maneuver.

Her hand was on the doorknob of the still-closed door, and she leaned her forehead against the door.

He continued, “You wanted to play volleyball in college, but being five-six, and now having a torn ACL, you feel that’s shot. You told me you had two chances—slim and fat, and now you have none. You weighed 125 before the injury, but now you weigh 136.”

Leah jerked her head back indignantly, “One thirty-five. I’m sure I said one thirty-five!”

“Okay, what else? You secretly hope your volleyball team loses in your absence.”

“Shhhh,” Leah shushed him. She turned around and leaned her back against the door, arms crossed; she turned her face toward the door and suggested, “Tell me about you.”

“I hate talking about me—you know that.” After thirty seconds of silence, Cully confessed, “Okay. My dad’s in prison. My mom’s been with a dozen guys who rub her like a bad stain before they completely wash her from their lives. I spend my free time hacking into people’s computers and reading about their lives, because my life sucks.”

I groaned inwardly, This is getting pathetic. But I think I’d still let him in. He’s got to be telling the truth. Who’d lie about that?

In an apparent concession, Leah’s arms dropped to her sides; she turned and again and her fingers curled tentatively around the doorknob.

“Look, I’ll go,” Cully offered. “I just want you to know you’re beautiful. And soon you’ll resume an active lifestyle, with a new appreciation of the freedom of unrestrained movement.”

I shook my head gently, careful not to stir up my sinuses. Wow. Girl, let the boy in. I guess this guy wasn’t a big enough loser to make her roster.

Suddenly, Leah smoothed her hair and reached for the deadbolt on the door as she turned the knob already in her hand. I heard it snick open.

CRASH! Before I had a chance to smile, our front door blasted open and Leah went flying backward to the floor. A heavy man landed on top of her and straddled her quickly before she could react.

I tried getting up, but I felt frozen in place. Leah winced in pain as she reached for her injured knee.

He struck her hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her.

My headache was pulsing in earnest now, and as if in sympathy with Leah, I couldn’t breathe. I tried to yell for him to stop, but only a barely audible whine left my constricted throat and went unnoticed.

Leah fought back with a resilience that made me proud of her.

Cully pulled his weight up for a moment and slammed her to the floor.

Dazed, Leah moaned in pain. Tears of helplessness began flowing, creating trickles of her winged eyeliner from her eyes to her ears. Instead of conceding, though, Leah rallied and elbowed him in the face with the raging scream of a warrior. When he raised his body to slam her once again, she quickly squirmed out from under him. Crawling on her hands and her one good leg, Leah managed to escape his grasp.

But Cully caught up with her and tackled her hard, face down, and pummeled her in the kidney with his fist. Then he turned her over and held her wrists to the floor. He was now firmly in control.

Panting from exertion, he laughed as he told her, “My name is Culhwch, pronounced Cull-lock in Scotland, but in America we’ll say Cul-witch.”

Their wrestling had landed them so Culhwch, was facing away from me. I dug deep and got myself on my feet. I began slowly and silently working my way down the steps, my eyes riveted on my sister and this monster, with no idea what I’d do once I reached them. Searing pain ripped through my skull when I moved, forcing me to sit.

He grasped her chin to hold her focus. “You’re not telling anybody about this, because I have all those topless pictures of you, and I’ll make sure your parents and everyone in your church youth group gets them if you say a word.” His head turned my way ever so slightly, so I froze in place. He focused on her once again.

“But you were so nice to me,” Leah whimpered. I wanted to hold her head in my lap and gently soothe her, like Mom did when we were little.

Cully laughed at her, “I Googled, ‘What do you say to someone who’s lost a lover?’ I found, ‘I wish I had the right words. Just know I care. I can’t tell you how to feel, but I’ll listen.’”

How humiliating. I felt sick for Leah. I took a few more steps down the stairs, praying I wouldn’t hit the one that creaked and had given us away since we were little. The...