Page 2 of The Accomplice
The roar of a Ford Crown Victoria sounded somewhere in the distance. The sound of that engine was like a starter pistol. By the time the SWAT leader calledGO,everyone was on their feet, boots tearing up the lawn, hauling ass to the points of entry. There were a dozen agents and NYPD ahead of Delaney, even wearing their heavy assault gear, helmets and Kevlar. She wasn’t going to win any foot races tonight, but that didn’t matter. Others would go in first. Officers and agents who trained to kick down the doors of hostile buildings.
By the time Delaney put a foot on the patio, and passed the swimming pool, the SWAT team was already inside, the back door hanging loose off its hinges. She heard a voice. A scream. Female.
Delaney waited at the back door ; weapon drawn. There were five other FBI agents with her – the search team. Laminated cards hung off their lanyards alongside their FBI IDs. The cards were pictures of key search items – items of jewelry known to have been taken from the victims. Some of them would be easy to spot because of their rarity. Like the Tahitian black pearl necklace taken from Stacy Nielsen three days ago.
A call came over the comms.
‘He’s not here. House, grounds and garage are clear. The wife is in the kitchen. Property secure.’
Delaney swore, entered the house through the back door. A large utility room led to a vast kitchen. The twelve-foot-high arched ceiling accommodated a huge window that would flood the space with light during the day. Now, it only seemed to let in the dark. A wine glass lay on its side on the marble counter top. The red wine pooled on the counter and slowly dripped onto the white tile floor.
There was a woman with short, dark hair sitting on a couch at the far corner of the room. Carrie Miller was shaking her head, crying, looking up at two armed NYPD SWAT officers standing over her, asking her questions. She wore a white tee, gray sweat pants and cream house socks. As Delaney approached, she noticed the woman’s perfect oval face, clear skin and bright green eyes glazed in tears.
‘I don’t know where he is. He hasn’t been home in days. He-he s-said he was going away on business, p-please, what is this about I—’
‘Mrs. Miller, I’m special agent Paige Delaney. I know how scared you must be feeling right now. I’m sorry for the intrusion. We have a warrant to search your property and arrest your husband, Daniel Miller.’
It’s hard to gauge someone’s reaction to this kind of news. Right then, Delaney wasn’t sure Carrie was taking this in.
‘Mrs. Miller, what I’m going to say will upset you a great deal, but it’s important for your safety that you know the truth.’
Before she laid the motherload on Carrie Miller, she paused and searched the woman’s eyes. Carrie already looked grief stricken – traumatized. The tears were stripping the make-up from her face. She sniffed and wiped at her cheeks, smudging her lipstick against her white teeth. There was something about trauma that was a great leveler. Delaney had sat on a lot of couches with a lot of women and given them all bad news.
Carrie looked like those women.
Her marriage had made her rich. Delaney knew Carrie came from a poor Midwestern family, had come to New York to become an actor and somewhere on that journey she had met Daniel Miller. Did it matter whether those women Delaney had held and comforted on all those couches touched up their smudged lips with a ten-buck stick of Maybelline or a ninety-dollar stick of Christian Louboutin ? Carrie’s purse sat open on the glass coffee table and Delaney was pleased to see a cheap brand of lipstick. It didn’t look like the money had changed Carrie. That showed character. She thought Carrie would need every bit of that fortitude to get through this next chapter in her life.
It was not unusual for serial killers to carry out their crimes while simultaneously leading relatively normal lives. The BTK killer, Gacy, the Green River Killer, and many more serial murderers were married men. Once the shock and disbelief subside, and the wives accept who their husbands really are, a different kind of internal struggle begins. In time, Carrie, just like those women, would ask the same question again and again. How could they not know they were married to a monster ? Then guilt would kick in. Unwarranted guilt, but it would feel real and hurt just as bad. Not only would those women suddenly realize they had no future, but any happiness they had enjoyed in the past would disappear. Every kiss, every embrace, every shared moment would turn poisonous. And then therealpain would kick in with this question – what was it about them that attracted someone who was so evil ? If that didn’t rip Carrie apart in the next couple of years, she might get through it. Delaney sure hoped so. She glanced at the ten-dollar lipstick in Carrie’s purse and thought she might have a better shot than most.
‘May I call you Carrie ?’ asked Delaney.
Carrie nodded in agreement, her lips parted as if to let the fear and dread flood inside, making her shake.
‘Carrie, we think your husband is the killer known as the Sandman.’
What do you say to that ? How do you react ? Delaney thought thatanyreaction would be okay. It’s not something that can be easily processed. But she knew thiswasa process. And the first step was denial :you’ve got the wrong man. I know my husband – don’t be ridiculous – he’s not a violent man – he’s such a good father, he provides for us, takes care of us. I’m sorry this must be a mistake …
Carrie Miller’s open mouth trembled, and she searched Delaney’s face.
But she didn’t say anything. She didn’t protest her husband’s innocence. It reminded Delaney of her tenth birthday. That same day her father died. He had been in hospital for a month with a brain tumor, inoperable and terminal. He was in a coma, and she had been to see him that morning. In the afternoon there was a small party – three of her best friends and some cake. After everyone left, her mother was putting on her coat to go back to the hospital when the phone rang. Delaney would never forget her mom’s face. It looked like the tears were freezing her expression. Carrie had that same look. A woman who knew something terrible was going to happen, even had time to prepare for it, but when it did happen, the pain was worse than she had expected.
‘Could we get Carrie a glass of water ?’ said Delaney to one of the SWAT, and he moved to the cupboard, found the glasses and filled one from the faucet then handed it to Carrie.
She held the glass in both hands, brought it, quivering, to her mouth.
‘If you know where he is, I need you to tell me that location,’ said Delaney.
‘I don’t know where he is,’ said Carrie. ‘And I don’t care. I don’t ever want to lay eyes on him again.’
Delaney squeezed the radio attached to her stab vest, said, ‘Any news on the search, Bill ?’
Her message was answered straight away by agent in charge, Bill Seong, ‘Come on upstairs. Master bedroom.’
She took the grand staircase two steps at a time. Found the large master bedroom at the end of the hall on her left. Inside were two lounge chairs, a mirror, a king-size bed in the center of the room and a flatscreen on the wall.
‘Here, in the closet,’ said Bill.
There were two doors off the master. A private bathroom and a walk-in closet that was the same size as her apartment in Manhattan. The closet had mahogany shelves, drawers and wardrobes built into both sides. His and hers. Bill shone his flashlight at a rack of white shirts, tightly packed together.
