The Echo Killing: A gripping debut crime thriller you won’t be able to put down!. Christi Daugherty
Josh tilted his head at the retreating backs of the police officials. ‘What was that about? He didn’t give us anything.’
Miles appeared at Harper’s side, his phone in one hand. The puzzled look he’d worn since she’d insisted on seeing the crime scene was still there.
‘That’s all we’re going to get out here, today, I reckon. I’m heading back to the newsroom,’ he said, distance in his voice. ‘Baxter wants you in, too. Says you need the story before six for the website.’
She nodded. ‘On my way.’
He paused, staring down at the yellow house. ‘That was a short statement, wasn’t it? He didn’t say much.’
Grabbing her keys, Harper turned to limp to her car.
‘He said plenty.’
Back at the newsroom, she wrote up a quick article for the early edition. Miles sat a few desks away from her, pointedly not looking at her as he edited his photos. Harper knew she’d have to give him some sort of explanation for what had transpired out on Constance Street, but there wasn’t time now.
Still, the practical work of putting together the scant facts the police had been willing to share steadied her. When she finished writing, though, the article was far too short. She needed to know more.
Pushing other papers out of the way, Harper flipped through her notes from the crime scene. Hadn’t the neighbors said Whitney worked at a university?
Savannah had two colleges – the Savannah College of Art and Design and Savannah State University. The art school was downtown, not far from where Harper lived. It was funky and modern, populated mostly by tattooed kids from wealthy northern families.
The university was out in the suburbs. It attracted working-class Georgia kids looking for a smaller school closer to home than UGA in Athens.
Harper wasn’t immediately certain which one the neighbors meant.
With quick sure movements, she typed Whitney’s name and the name of the local college into the computer. The search brought up a page on the Savannah State University website with an image of a slim, polished woman. Her shoulder-length hair was honey blonde, forming a striking contrast with her warm, brown eyes. She had a wide, Miss America smile.
Under her picture the caption read: ‘Marie Whitney, Vice Chair for Development and Enrichment’.
Leaning closer, Harper stared at the image. It was hard to believe this was the same woman she’d seen earlier that day.
Death takes away everything that makes you distinctive. Everything that makes you who you are.
Dead, Whitney had been anonymous. Pale skin on the cold floor – a hand reaching out imploringly.
Alive, she’d looked electric. She was almost hypnotically beautiful – cinnamon eyes and flawless golden skin warm and glowing with life.
If Harper was looking for parallels between Whitney and her mother, she wasn’t going to find any in their appearance.
Her mother had been beautiful, yes. But Harper could hardly remember a time when she wore makeup. Her long red hair had usually been twisted up and held haphazardly in place with a paintbrush or pencil. She’d favored faded jeans with torn knees and was usually barefoot when she worked.
There was nothing to connect her, physically at least, to this polished woman.
Still, there were obvious elements linking the two. They were both in their thirties. Both were mothers. Both were about the same age when they were killed. Both were stabbed multiple times in their homes in daylight crimes. Both were found naked, on the kitchen floor. Both were discovered by their twelve-year-old daughters after school.
It wasn’t enough to go on and Harper knew it. But it wasn’t nothing, either.
‘Is that her?’
Baxter’s sharp voice made Harper jump. The editor had walked up without her noticing. She peered over her shoulder at the image on the screen.
‘Uh … Yeah. That’s her,’ Harper said, clearing her throat. ‘I’m trying to figure out what Development and Enrichment means.’
‘Money,’ Baxter said. ‘It’s a long-winded way of saying “fund-raising”.’ She straightened. ‘Find DJ and get him to call the university and ask permission for us to use that.’ The editor tapped her fingertip against Marie Whitney’s face. ‘Tell him to get a high-res version for print. I’ll let art know.’
She hustled off, her low heels clicking on the terrazzo floor.
When she was gone, Harper didn’t immediately search for DJ. Instead, she searched for more information on Whitney.
She was mentioned in a few articles about the college, mostly as a minor player. There was only one piece of any length – an over-excited article in the university newspaper, The Caller. It had been written two years earlier and was headlined: Whitney Brings in Big Bucks.
Fundraiser extraordinaire, Marie Whitney, 32, is being credited with organizing a campaign that has so far brought a whopping $4.3 million to the school’s coffers.
Whitney has arranged gala balls, celebrity concerts and art sales, together with an online campaign. Thanks in large part to her efforts, the school has exceeded its annual fundraising goal of $3.8 million by over half a million dollars.
Ever cheerful, Whitney is popular with other workers in the Development Office, for her bubbly personality as well as her can-do attitude.
‘Everyone loves Marie,’ her boss Ellen Janeworth said, when interviewed. ‘She’s a dream to work with. There’s nothing she won’t do for the university.’
Whitney told us she was delighted by her recent success.
‘I loved my time at college,’ she said, smiling. ‘It was the high point of my life. I want to make sure future students – including my own daughter – have the chances I had.’
The article was illustrated with a candid picture of Marie, standing on the portico of the university’s administration building. She wore a white pencil skirt and a blue, snug-fitting top. Her skin was unlined. Her lipstick was a conservative, delicate pink. She was smiling that same perfect smile.
Harper stared at that picture for a long time.
There was so much that didn’t make sense. What connected Whitney to her mother? Who would have wanted to kill both of them?
And, if the same person killed them both, what had made him come back now?
Two hours later, Harper walked out of the darkening city through the heavy glass door into the police station. The entrance hall was empty at this hour and her footsteps echoed in the hollow quiet. Her ankle still ached from her fall earlier, but she was no longer limping. The air conditioning felt like ice against her skin.
Dwayne Josephs looked up from the screen of the small TV that sat underneath the top of the broad modern reception desk. Seeing her, his face brightened.
‘Harper! I heard y’all got y’allselves a live one,’ he said, his tone meaningful. ‘Got everyone here in an uproar. Like someone killed the president.’
Dwayne was dark-skinned and as skinny as daytime receptionist Darlene was curvy. He was six feet tall but his arms and legs still seemed too long for his body, a fact that imbued him with the endearing gawkiness of a teenager, although Harper reckoned he had to be at least thirty-five.
She’d known him for years and she knew how much he loved to gossip. At the moment, she needed information, and she was hoping he’d have something she could use. But she had to play this carefully. As much as