The Killing Kind by M. William Phelps Read Free Book Online Page A

had, did this indicate that perhaps her killer, after realizing his first body had been found so easily in that culvert, had now figured out that he might want to try and get rid of his victims from this point on?

CHAPTER 14
    O n Monday, November 16, Shellie Nations was at home, keeping herself busy doing what housewives and mothers do. She had been thinking about the last time she saw Randi on Randi’s birthday and how sad Randi had seemed. Some weeks had gone by. They’d spoken on the phone a few times and made plans to see each other, but life had gotten in the way and priorities kept them apart. What Shellie didn’t know—and how could she?—was that Randi’s life had been on a fast-moving, downward trajectory over the course of the past few months.
    Randi had been living with a boyfriend, Tim Gause, in a house they had emptied out because it was being foreclosed on. She had been running with some of the same people Heather Catterton had. The sting of drug addiction for Randi had become infected. She had been doing things that, had it not been for the drugs, she would not have ever thought of attempting. Randi essentially had become the type of person she had once helped out. Tragically, she managed to keep it all hidden from those in her life who could have helped her.
    What was she thinking? Shellie thought as an item on the nightly news caught her attention. Shellie had just sat down, happy to be off her feet for the first time that day, when the newscaster reported another body had been found in York County, South Carolina, just below the North Carolina border.
    When Shellie heard of possible ties to Gastonia, she paid attention.
    The YCSO had released a photograph of a tattoo found on the woman’s body—one of only a few sections that had not been burned or charred beyond the recognizable beauty and ceramic-like texture of the woman’s skin. What greatly worried investigators was how the woman’s killer had wrapped her in a blanket and bound her legs with what they now knew to be a piece of cut electrical cord. This was not some sort of overdose or accidental death being covered up by a group of dopers, a gallon of gas and a stupid idea. That deduction was clear from the evidence thus far.
    “York County was greatly concerned,” said one North Carolina law enforcement official, “that they had a serial killer on their hands and he would soon strike again. And when they discovered that both victims lived in Gastonia, that was when they called on the Gaston County Police [Department] for help.”
    Shellie was listening to every word spoken by the newscaster, who was reporting from as close to the Kings Mountain State Park crime scene as cops would allow. In the background, as the reporter told a familiar tale, you could see the yellow crime-scene tape flapping in the wind, marking off the area. A black char mark on the ground was visible in the distance.
    Then the news showed a photograph of the tattoo. Investigators were hoping the victim’s family would recognize it and call in.
    That tattoo looks very familiar, Shellie thought, staring at the television. The YCSO had released a partial photo, actually: just the green leaf section of what had been a red flower.
    Shellie called out for her husband.
    “Yeah?” he responded, walking into the living room.
    “I really want you to watch the news. This tattoo they’re showing really looks familiar to me.”
    It was 5:30 P.M. As each moment passed, Shellie was beginning to worry more.
    “We need to go find Randi right now,” she told her husband. Shellie wanted Randi in front of her, so she could see her and hug her and know—without a doubt—that this was all just a terrible coincidence. She wanted to convince herself that the way she felt was how several other people watching might be feeling, staring at the same tattoo.
    “Sure, Shell. Let’s go.”
    Shellie and her husband searched all the places she knew Randi either hung out or had spent time