by Leslie Wolfe
The two men chatted on the covered porch, while the girls played in the front of the house. Judy had drawn some circles on the asphalt in yellow and green chalk, while Kathy hung like a monkey from Mr. Stinson’s tow truck. She loved climbing on the rear of the vehicle, grabbing on to all those rods and cables and chains, and then jumping back down again.
“Get off that truck,” her dad called, and she sadly let go and walked away. Mr. Stinson’s truck was bright red and had something that looked like a cross in the back. That’s where she liked to climb, up on the platform, hanging on to that tilted cross and dangling by the cables.
But she obeyed, just as her father, short-fused as always, had gotten off his chair to come and get her down himself.
She went over to the driveway and found Judy waiting, a fistful of pebbles by her side. In the corner of her eye, she saw her father sitting down next to Mr. Stinson, uncapping another bottle of beer. For a while at least, he’d let her be.
Picking up some pebbles, she started throwing them at the circles Judy had drawn. Their game was simple, nameless, and lots of fun. For each pebble that missed the circle, she had to obey Judy’s command. Then it was Judy’s turn, and for each of her misses, she got to give the commands and watch them being executed, while both of them laughed and laughed until they couldn’t breathe.
Kathy threw each pebble carefully, weighing it in her hand to make sure she didn’t over- or undershoot. Still, a pebble bounced right out of the green circle, after it had landed squarely inside.
“No,” she squealed, then looked at Judy, waiting for her sentence.
“Lay flat in the dirt,” Judy ordered.
Without a word, she lay on her back by the driveway, her arms folded under her head.
“Face down,” Judy insisted, laughing.
“You didn’t say!” Kathy replied, jumping to her feet and brushing some of the dust off her dress.
She picked the pebbles from the circles and gave them to her friend, then took her position to the side. Judy missed, and Kathy was quick to order, “Do a cartwheel.”
Her eyes wandered while Judy threw her pebbles, and saw Nick in the distance, by the barn. He was looking at the two girls, and Kathy waved.
“Why can’t Nick play with us?” she asked.
“Mom said he has to do chores.”
Her smile waned. She liked Nick. He must’ve been about sixteen; he went to high school, and Judy got to brag about her older brother all the time. She also had an endless supply of homework already done, from four years ago when Nick had gone through the same assignments. All his notebooks were saved in a box under his bed, and he readily shared when asked. Nick was cool.
She waved at him, but he didn’t wave back. Instead, he showed her the rake he was holding, lifting it up in the air and pointing at it in an exaggerated way, then went behind the fence, to work. He threw her one long look, clearly feeling sorry he couldn’t play with them.
“Nick!” Mrs. Stinson called. “Get in the barn and lay the straw already. It’s almost dark.”
She waved at him one more time, but he didn’t see her. Then she felt her father’s sweaty hand grab hers and jumped out of her skin.
“Let’s go home,” he ordered, the stench of booze heavy on his breath. “You and Judy can play at our house tonight.”
She turned to her friend, who seemed just as confused as she was, and then to Mr. Stinson, who smiled and said, “Go on, girls, have fun!”
Nineteen
Offender
They stopped at the Chevron gas station on the way back to the sheriff’s office, and Kay rushed inside while Elliot filled up the tank. A few minutes later, she came out carrying a box of fresh donuts and some coffee and found him wrapping up a phone call.
After they climbed into the vehicle and Elliot started the engine, he took a bite from the donut she had offered. He chewed quickly, then said, “It was a no-show.”
“What are you talking about?” Kay asked.
“Alison was gone by the time the tow truck driver showed up,” he clarified. “He checked at Katse and drove the valley both ways, but she was gone.”
She was quiet for a moment. If Alison was gone by the time that tow truck got there, the unsub must’ve moved very quickly. He’d grabbed both Alison and Hazel, and—
“Was the Nissan still there?” she asked.
“Nope,” he said, then whistled and made a hand gesture mimicking a car peeling off at high speed. “Gone.”
She frowned. How were they supposed to find Alison and her daughter if every single lead they had disintegrated, leaving nothing behind? That car was supposedly broken down. How the heck did it disappear?
“Mr. Stinson, right?” she asked, sadness gripping her throat for a brief moment. “The tow truck driver?”
“Right,” he replied, shooting her a quick look. “How did you know?”
“His daughter was my best friend growing up. I haven’t had a chance to pay them a visit since I got back, but I believe the tow truck involvement theory just crashed and burned. There’s no way Mr. Stinson has any part in this; he’s the kindest man I’ve ever met.”
Elliot took another bite of donut. “I agree. I worked with him long enough to know it’s not him. He’s my go-to guy for DUI tows and traffic accidents; with so many tourists driving under the influence, he and I have been crossing paths a lot. But it made sense, the idea that the unsub is towing the cars to San Francisco. It’s simple, no one would’ve stopped them on the way.”
“Is Mr. Stinson still the only towing service in town?”
“Other than him, the closest one is in Redding, and that’s almost an hour away. And there’s no other towing capable truck registered to anyone in the area.”
She stared at the road ahead silently, lost in memories she’d almost completely forgotten. Judy and her, playing by the tow truck. Judy’s mother, setting the dinner table. The two girls, sharing a sweet sixteenth birthday, and talking about boys in the back of Judy’s yard. Then she moved away to college, while Judy stayed behind. They’d emailed for a while, spoken on the phone, but soon fell out of touch, although Kay’s heart still ached when she thought of Judy. She missed her friend.
“I’d completely forgotten about them,” she said softly, her voice loaded with tears she didn’t expect. “They were my second family, sometimes closer than my first, and I—”
“You moved on and built a life for yourself,” he replied. “That must’ve taken some serious work, I bet.”
“It wasn’t easy, that’s for sure,” she chuckled, wiping off a rebel tear from the corner of her eye. “Do you know I used to play on that tow truck? And still, when we interviewed MacPherson, it didn’t click. It didn’t come to me. I was so sure we had the unsub’s signature figured out, but no. We’re back to square one.” She bit the tip of her index fingernail for a brief moment, a long-forgotten gesture that calmed her frayed nerves.
It couldn’t’ve been Mr. Stinson; she would lay her life down on that. But the tow truck theory made so much sense she couldn’t just let it go. It was elegant, cop-proof, anonymous. How many cops pull over loaded tow trucks? Zero. Most of them transport vehicles with accident reports or in collaboration with police, like impounds or illegal-parking removals. The unsub knew he wouldn’t get stopped. He had a way to grab the broken-down vehicles when they couldn’t be driven anymore. Vehicles, because Kay had no doubt in her mind that the technician would soon call them and confirm the Jeep had broken down also. But if the tow truck had really been involved in the disposal of the victims’ cars, then it should be on camera at the San Francisco long-term parking garage. As soon as she got those videos she’d know for sure.
“Not necessarily,” Elliot replied, after wolfing down the rest of the donut and licking the sugar off his fingers. “We have Eggers in custody. You know, the local sex offender. I’d say he’s by far more likely to have kidnapped and killed these women than your best friend’s dad, don’t you think?”
&n
bsp; She let out a short yet loaded sigh. “Honestly, I think we’re wasting our time. He’s a disorganized sex offender, one of the grab-and-rape types, not the man we’re looking for.”
“Still, Logan has him chained to the table in an interview room,” he said with a wide grin. “All yours to play with, while I get a warrant to search his house.”
“We’re wasting time, Elliot,” she said, aware she’d raised her voice. “I’m telling you, it’s not him.”
“And I’m telling you, I have a boss and I have to work for a living,” he replied calmly, but she knew better than to buy his appearance of composure. “It makes sense, from a police procedure perspective,” he added. “Stuff you might not give a horse’s rear end about, but might end some good cops’ careers if things go bust and we can’t even say we rounded up the model citizens of the neighborhood.”
She didn’t reply; there was nothing left to say. Instead, she spent the little time she had before the Eggers interview analyzing the unsub’s signature.
It was uniquely complex, requiring agility, both mental and physical, strength, knowledge and means. She didn’t separate the burial ritual from the vehicle disposal, including them both in the signature, because they’d both been orchestrated by the same man. By definition, the signature of a killing included the particular elements that are not necessary in the committing of the crime, but speak to the killer’s compulsions and fantasy-driven rituals. The vehicle disposal might’ve been a forensic countermeasure and nothing else, allowing him to hide the cars without risking leaving particulates and fingerprints inside. But she believed that there was more to it than just excellent planning and even better execution.
The time frame he had to grab Alison and Hazel and hide the car before the tow truck got there was incredibly narrow. Now that she remembered Mr. Stinson, she no longer suspected the tow truck driver of involvement in the crime, but still felt strongly she should talk to him, not only to catch up, but also to build an accurate timeline of events. What time did he get the call from Alison? Even if he didn’t remember exactly, phone records could be obtained. How long did it take him to respond? What time did he get to the vehicle, to find Alison was gone?
But maybe, she had to admit, she was obsessing over the vehicle disposal part because she didn’t have a solid lead; not anymore. If she wanted to find Alison and Hazel alive, she had to find a shortcut somewhere, because the road that led from the SFO video surveillance analysis to the tow truck business phone records was a long and meandering one, not guaranteed to succeed but guaranteed to take days, if not weeks.
Alison and Hazel couldn’t afford that. The unsub had killed Kendra after only ten days of captivity, and he’d already been holding Alison for seven days. Time was running out.
As soon as Elliot pulled into the sheriff’s office parking lot and cut the engine, Kay rushed inside. A few minutes after nine, she entered the interview room to find a skinny man stinking of alcohol. The early morning hour didn’t seem to matter, because for Eggers the party didn’t seem to stop.
Kay had just reviewed his record, while he waited with a smirk on his face, when Elliot joined them. She decided to cut it short, the formality that it was, and went straight for the critical question.
“Mr. Eggers, where were you on October fifteenth, between two and six in the afternoon?”
“How am I supposed to remember?” he replied morosely. “Let me ask my secretary,” he added, sarcasm dripping from his venom-loaded voice. “Oh, now I remember, I was on a fishing expedition with a bunch of loser cops.”
“I suggest you remember,” she insisted. “It’s in your best interest.”
“Yeah, like you care about my best interest,” he replied, leaning back in his chair as far as the handcuffs chained to the table allowed him. “You know what’s in my best interest? A damn lawyer, that’s what. And take these damn chains off of me, ’cause I’m not under arrest, am I?”
Elliot looked at Kay briefly, then removed Eggers’s handcuffs. The man rubbed his wrists vigorously, then interlaced his fingers behind his head in a defiant posture.
“You’re not under arrest, Mr. Eggers,” Elliot replied. “We need you to answer a few ques—”
“You need to pin something major on me, don’t you, Texas Ranger? Aren’t you a bit far from the O.K. Corral?”
Elliot tried to speak, but was quickly cut off again. “That’s in Arizona, not Texas. Mr. Eggers, there’s no need—”
“There’s a need for what I say there’s a need for, and that’s a lawyer. I know my rights.”
“All right,” Kay replied, “you’ll have your lawyer. Can you afford one? Or should we get one of those young folks, fresh out of college, to seal your fate?”
“The greenest of lawyers will know to tell you I’m not talkin’ to no cops.” He spat on the floor, inches away from Kay’s foot. She didn’t flinch.
“Until your lawyer gets here,” Kay said, “if you needed a tow truck, where would you get one?”
“From the Yellow fuckin’ Pages, that’s where. No more questions without my lawyer; don’t try to trick me.”
Elliot beckoned Kay to follow him out of the room. As soon as the door was closed behind them, he said, “We’ll storm his house and find Alison and Hazel, if they’re there to be found. Don’t pave this guy’s road to a release over a Miranda technicality. He’s asked for a lawyer. We’re done.”
“I’m not law enforcement,” Kay replied with a weak smile.
“Yes, but I am, and my presence in the room guarantees his rights.”
“Can’t you just, um, go out for coffee?” Kay asked. “He’s not the unsub, Elliot, I promise you that. But maybe he’s heard something out there, maybe I can get him to talk. Thing is, we don’t have much else to go on. It’s like Alison and Hazel vanished into thin air.”
“There’s no way, I’m sorry,” Elliot replied. “Logan would fire me on the spot, and whatever we’d find out during the questioning would be fruit of the poisonous tree; he’d walk. You know that, partner.”
Yes, she did. She hated it, but the law was clear, and today didn’t seem like the day she could bend the rules a little.
“All right. Let’s see what the search yields, maybe we can get some leverage and question him again. Because I’m telling you, Elliot, we won’t find those girls in this man’s basement.”
Twenty
First Kill
The first few minutes after his mother had thrown him out of the house, he stood there in a daze. It wasn’t happening; it couldn’t happen. She must’ve been joking, and she’d soon open the door and invite him back inside, give him a hug and run her fingers through his hair, arranging it neatly like she used to do when he was little.
She didn’t. The house remained silent, and the front door locked.
About twenty minutes later, the porch light was switched off, leaving him alone in the unwelcoming darkness.
He banged on the door, begged and pleaded, but no one seemed to hear him. He swore he’d be good, although he didn’t understand what he’d done wrong. Then he crouched on the ground, hugging his knees and leaning against the door, the night’s chilled air freezing his blood.
But she didn’t open that door.
At the crack of dawn, his father came out and said, “Son, you’re old enough. You’ll be fine out there. You have to go. I’m—um, really sorry.” And he shoved a couple of twenty-dollar bills into his son’s trembling hand. Then the door was locked again, this time for good.
He understood, although he had no idea why. He understood his mother didn’t love him anymore, maybe she never had. He realized his father was never going to take his side. And he walked away, burning tears flooding his eyes.
His first stop was the church. He knew the priest helped people in need; that’s why all his old clothes and things the family didn’t need any more were donated to the congregation. But Father Reaves had listened to his cry for help with distance in his demeanor, then said to him he wa
sn’t welcome at church anymore.
“Pray to the Lord for forgiveness, and He’ll show you the way back from the dark realm of concupiscence,” Father Reaves had said, spewing words he didn’t understand. “Then the community will open its bosom for you, my little lost sheep.”
“But, Father, what have I done?”
“You have chosen the wrong path, my son, a path serving Satan through selfishly inward carnal fervor, and it’s a terrible sin,” the priest said with a long sigh. A couple of elderly women entered the church as he was saying those words, shooting worried glances at him, then at the priest. “Search your soul, and find the path back to righteousness. And pray to the Lord to guide you.” He then grabbed his elbow lightly but firmly, and showed him out the door. “Go with God, my son. I’ll be praying for you.”
It seemed his mother had poisoned the entire community with lies about him. He couldn’t stay and face the disdain; he was always going to be a pariah in the town he once called his home. No one would help him, no one would take him in or give him food scraps to eat. He had to leave.
That day, he hitched a ride to San Francisco on an eighteen-wheeler whose driver took half his money to drop him off at the foot of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, after questioning him thoroughly about his age. He swore he was over eighteen; he was still a year and several months shy of that milestone, but San Francisco’s Tenderloin neighborhood had very little against adding one more panhandler to one of its street corners, especially one as young as him. The ill-famed neighborhood was home to some theaters and entertainment, but also to the majority of the city’s deviants, sex workers and vagrants; its squalid conditions, street drug trade and illegal strip joints having earned the neighborhood its name, a reference, many say, to a hooker’s tender loins. Others believed the neighborhood, a cultural and societal duplicate of the New York City Tenderloin district, had earned its name from the fact that cops working that beat made so much money on the side that they could afford to eat tenderloin every day. Regardless of which shady practice had earned the neighborhood its name, there wasn’t a better place for him to lose himself and start his new life in the streets.
