“I think we’d have better success searching the file boxes here than we would at the Bureau. Without knowing where he sent the information or to whom, or when, there’s no telling where it might be now. I’ll ask John Mancini to have someone there in the office look into it, but it’s such a long shot, it’s almost not worth the time. Unless an official investigation was started and documented, it will be impossible. With the passage of all these years, you have offices closing or moving, agents dying, retiring, or relocating. Your father’s files may be a mess, but we’re fairly certain that somewhere in the midst of it all we’ll find what we’re looking for. We have no such assurance relying on the Bureau records.”
Regan studied the list again.
“These dates range from the early eighties right through the late nineties. My guess would be that he passed it along as soon as he realized what was happening.”
“You think he understood that the killer was telling him every time he struck?”
“I think my dad would have figured that out. Remember that this was not unusual.” She waved the page at him. “He’d been contacted by killers many times over the past thirty years. Some wanted to confess to him, some wrote to taunt him. Others challenged him. Catch me if you can, that sort of thing.”
“Why your father?”
“It all started with a book he wrote in 1975. He’d interviewed a killer named Willie Miles, who was on death row in Florida for murdering his wives … that would be three former wives. My dad said he’d followed the case for the newspaper he was working for at the time, but thought it was a pretty interesting story.”
“Your dad’s background was in journalism?”
“Yes. Anyway, apparently Willie got chatty on his cell block and talked about how this writer from up north had come to see him, and how he was going to be famous because this writer was going to write a book about him, and one of the other inmates picked up on it. This second one wrote to Dad a few times. I guess he had told someone else there about it, and before my dad knew it, he was getting mail from other men on death row, too. Then some who were not yet on death row, and some from other states. And then some who had not as yet been caught.”
“Why do you suppose they reached out to him?”
“I think they thought he’d make them famous. Write a book about them, too. The press had picked up on the story, about my dad getting all this mail, and I guess everyone wanted their fifteen minutes. It did die down after a few years, but from time to time he still heard from inmates.” She smiled wryly. “Sometimes they wrote just to tell him how wrong he was about something or other he’d written. That’s how he came into contact with Curtis Channing, the serial killer who, ultimately, was responsible for his death.”
“The killer who put your dad’s name on the hit list that he passed on to someone else.”
“Archer Lowell. The man who shot my father.”
“And you’re certain—you are positive—that your father saved all this correspondence?”
“In one place or another. I’d bet on it.”
“Right. It all comes back to finding the right box.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“We can scour the boxes while we wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“For someone to respond to my inquiries. I sent a lot of emails and made a lot of phone calls yesterday to my office, as well as to several local police departments, state law enforcement agencies, whomever would have investigated these other homicides, asking them to fax over copies of their investigative reports.”
“All forty victims plus the four from Dad’s list?”
“Might as well take a look at the big picture. To that end, I have a bunch of bright yellow pins. We’ll use those to mark those other forty victims I tracked down on the computer.”
“Why segregate those?”
“Because we still have to put that list in order of date and integrate them into a master list. As we set up files on each of those, and confirm that they’re most likely victims of the same killer, we’ll exchange the yellow pin for a red one.”
“And when we have all red pins, we’ll have a complete list.”
“Until others come out of the woodwork.”
“Let’s take our coffee into the office and check that fax machine. I thought I heard it ring earlier.” Regan reached for the remote, and was about to turn off the television. “That’s that police chief from one of those bay towns …”
She increased the volume.
“… but you’ll have to ask the Hasboro Police Department for that information,” he was saying.
“Can you give us any information on the condition of the woman who was attacked last night? Has she been able to identify the man who attacked her?”
“I really can’t give you any information, Heather. This is an ongoing investigation …”
“But you can confirm that this woman did survive the attack?”
“One of the young women who was attacked over the weekend did survive. That’s all I want to say at this time.”
“Chief Denver, Bowers Inlet Police Department, we thank you for your time.” The camera switched back to the morning host. “We’ll be right back.”
“There’s been another one. Another murder in Bowers Inlet.” Regan frowned.
“At least one, apparently. Did you hear him refer to another police department? Started with an H.”
“I didn’t catch the name.”
“The Bureau sent an agent to Bowers to work with their department after the first four murders. Let me give him a call, see what’s going on.”
“While you do that, I think I’ll move all this paperwork of yours into the office. There’s some plywood in the barn, we can bring a piece in and pin the map on it, stand it up in front of the bookcases.”
She gathered up the files on the kitchen table and took them down the hall to the office. After setting the papers on the large desk, she raised the shade on the window and let the morning in.
“I had to leave voice mail for Rick. In the meantime, how about you show me where the plywood is?”
“It’s right over there, in the barn.” She pointed out the window, then opened the top desk drawer and took out a key, which she handed to him. “This is for the main door.”
“You’re not coming?”
She hesitated. “I’ll stay here and see if I can put this in order. Looks like someone was eager to share.” She pointed to the fax machine, where a pile of paper overflowed the receive tray. The red light blinked furiously, indicating it was out of paper and had more pages to transmit.
“Okay. I can go right out the back door?”
She nodded and reloaded the paper tray, then hit the Resume button. Within seconds, the fax began to print again. Page after page after page.
Regan looked out the window and watched Mitch stride across the wide drive to the barn. He unlocked the door easily and went inside. Less than five minutes later, he was on his way back, holding a large piece of plywood over his head.
“There’s a lot of good wood in there,” Mitch was saying as he came into the room. He lowered the wood and leaned it against the bookcase. “And a lot of caution tape. I’m sorry, Regan. I knew about what happened to your dad there, and I just wasn’t thinking.”
She nodded. “It’s okay. The tape is still in there?”
“Yes. Haven’t you … ?”
“No. I haven’t been in there since the day he was shot. I just can’t bring myself to go in.” She smiled sadly. “It must sound silly to you.”
“Not at all. In a way, I’m surprised that you’re living here.”
“I hadn’t intended to. I came back to clean out my dad’s things, pack up my personal belongings, family things I wanted to keep, then have the property sold. I hadn’t planned on staying. But I saw the story about the women being murdered at the shore, and it reminded me of those notes I found …”
“And you couldn’t walk away from the story.”
>
She shook her head. “I don’t think I can. Not until all of this is resolved.”
“Well, let’s see if we can make some progress here today, so you can get on with your life. Toss me that container of tacks, would you, please? Let’s get the map up.”
“You have a ton of faxes here,” she told him as they secured the map onto the plywood backing.
“That was fast.” He leaned the map against the bookshelf and reached for the pile of paper she handed to him. He leafed through, reading aloud, “Pennsylvania State Police. Alabama … Texas … New Mexico … and the Georgia Bureau of Investigation sure has a lot to say.”
He skimmed the fax messages that accompanied the various reports.
“Leary, Georgia. Colquitt. Ideal …” He shook his head. “Apparently they’re still going through their records.”
“And there are more faxes coming through.” She pointed to the machine, where sheet after sheet slid into the tray.
“Let’s put these in order by date so we have a chronological— That’s my phone.”
He pulled the ringing phone from his pants pocket and answered it, then wandered to the window and looked out while he listened.
“I think we need to have a sit-down-and-share, Cisco,” he said after several moments. “There or here, doesn’t matter … Okay, sure, I understand. I can be there in …”
Mitch looked at Regan and asked, “How far is it from here to the beach?”
“New Jersey has a whole coast made up of beaches.”
“Bowers Inlet.”
“Maybe an hour and a half. Depending on which way you go.”
“You know a shortcut?”
“Sure. I’m a Jersey girl. We never take the main roads.”
“Have lunch waiting for me,” Mitch said into his phone. “I’ll be there before noon.”
He folded the phone and slipped it back into his pocket.
“What’s going on in Bowers Inlet?” she asked.
“Seems the latest victim—the one the chief of police was talking about on TV?—is the cousin of the only detective in Bowers Inlet.”
“But she’s alive?”
“Alive, but still unconscious, so they haven’t been able to get any information from her about her attacker.”
Regan sat down on the arm of a chair and covered her face with her hands. “This is going way too fast. It’s way too big. I can’t keep up with it.”
“I’m sure the police in Bowers Inlet feel the same way.”
“Okay, we need a game plan.” She stood, her hands on her hips. “We have to keep this organized or it will get out of hand. We’ll lose sight of some information that might prove to be important later on. Let’s start by getting the map up. Put pins in all of the locations where we think there’s been a murder that could be connected.”
“Maybe you can do that while I drive down to meet with Cisco.” Mitch handed Regan the list and the box of pins, then began to gather all the faxes. “Maybe by the time I get back—”
“Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “I’m going with you. The deal with John Mancini was that I’d open my files to the FBI, but in return, I get information up front.”
“I’m not sure that up front means you get to tag along.”
“That was the deal.” More or less. “I can help you with this. For the past few weeks, I’ve been going through my father’s files. There may be things I’ve read that might mean something to your investigation.”
“Such as … ?”
“Something I hear, or see, in Bowers Inlet might ring a bell with something I read in one of his files.”
Mitch searched his pockets for his keys.
“Besides, you need me.” She folded her reading glasses and searched for their case amid the papers on the desk. Finding it, she tucked the glasses inside and dropped it into her handbag.
“I do?”
“Sure. I know all the shortcuts.”
Sixteen
“I’ll bet this backs up but good later in the summer,” Mitch observed as he drove over the two-lane bridge that led onto the small island where several of the bay towns were located. “Who still has two-lane bridges these days?”
“You’d be surprised.” Regan smiled. “I remember when some of the causeways ended in drawbridges. I’ll bet some still do.”
“Doesn’t seem very efficient.”
“You don’t come to the Jersey Shore looking for efficiency.” The smile widened slightly. “If you want efficient, you go to Florida.”
She pointed to acres of salt marsh off to her right where, twenty feet from the causeway, two herons fished amidst tall reeds.
“This still looks the way much of the shore area looks. There are miles of marshes and back bays, areas that will never be developed.” Her right arm drifted out the window and rose and fell as her hand rode the noontime breeze. “This is convertible weather. We should have taken my car.”
“I can put the sunroof down,” he offered.
“No offense, but why bother? On a day like today, you want more than the fresh air. You want to be able to lean your head back, get some sun on your face. You want the breeze along with the fresh air.”
“Fine. If we ever come back, you can drive.”
They passed a marina, where several boats of various sizes sat at their moorings, others sat on concrete blocks or on trailers. A sign advertised live bait, along with an all-you-can-eat clam bar. A Sunfish was heading out to the bay, and a couple of kids in a small outboard politely gave the sailboat a wide berth. They chugged past it slowly, then gunned the motor and took off, the Sunfish tossing in their wake.
Regan took a deep breath, the smile still in place. “My dad used to bring us to a place like this when I was little. I don’t remember the name of the town, but I remember how it smelled. Salty and warm. It was a big deal for me. The beaches are so different from the beaches in England.”
“You lived in England?”
“Until I was twelve. My mother was British, living in London when she met my father. They married there, then moved here when my father’s writing career took off.” Regan stared out the window. “She never really did adjust …”
“Where is she now?”
“She died a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
They rode in silence until they reached the main road into Bowers Inlet.
“Looks like a nice town,” Mitch said as he took a left onto Mooney Drive. “Nice little houses on little sandy lots …”
“Like every little town on the Jersey Shore,” she told him. “They all look pretty much the same—except for maybe Mantoloking. Of course, there are differences, but in most places, you pretty much always see the same kind of little beach cottage, the same narrow two-lane streets. The same little ice-cream shacks, the same little grocery stores …”
“What’s with Manna—what was it?”
“Mantoloking.”
“What, no beach cottages? No ice cream?”
“Let’s just say the cottages are a lot bigger there.” She mused. “But every shore town has a place to get ice cream. It’s mandated by code, I think.”
“Does the Bowers Inlet code require the residents to name their cottages?” He read the names as he drove by. “Sanctuary. Bill’s Bungalow. Summer Breeze …”
She laughed. “There’s the police station, on the next corner. Do you think your friend is here yet?”
“There’s his car,” Mitch said as he parked next to a black Camaro. “Let’s go on in and see what’s what.”
They entered the cool lobby of the police station and waited while the receptionist called back to the chief’s office. A pleasant blond woman with an easy smile and a professional manner came to escort them to the conference room.
“Lovely day out there, isn’t it?” She beamed. “We’ve had some great beach days this past week.”
She led them to the last door at the end of the hall.
�
�Everyone’s already here, you go right on in.” She held the door open for them.
“Thank you,” Regan and Mitch said at the same time.
“You’re welcome.” She closed the door quietly behind them.
“Agent Peyton?” No doubt who was running this show. The man at the end of the table was obviously the chief of police. He had in charge written all over him.
“Yes, sir.” Mitch placed his black satchel on the floor next to the table and extended his hand.
“Chief Denver here,” the chief introduced himself. “This is Detective Burke. And I’m assuming you and Agent Cisco know each other.”
“Detective.” Mitch nodded a greeting. “Cisco.”
“And you are …” The chief pointed to Regan.
“Regan Landry, Chief,” she said before Mitch could introduce her.
“Are you with the FBI, too?”
“No, actually, I’m a—”
“Ms. Landry is a consultant for the Bureau on this case,” Mitch spoke over her.
“A consultant? What kind of consultant?” Denver’s eyes narrowed.
“Ms. Landry has information about the Bayside Strangler that she’s been sharing with us,” Mitch said.
“If you have information about the Bayside Strangler,” Denver stared at Regan, “why didn’t you share it with us?”
“I did try, Chief Denver.” She arched a brow. “Actually, I tried on three occasions. None of my calls was returned, so I called the FBI.”
“Let’s see what you’ve got, then,” he grunted, vaguely remembering those pink While You Were Out slips, but not recalling exactly what they said. “Something about a writer?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. I’m a writer. And I will most likely write a book about this case.”
“And that entitles you to sit in on an official meeting how … ?”
“Because right now I’m bringing more to the table than I’m taking away.”
Regan opened her files and handed Denver the notes her father had received. He studied them without comment at first.
Cold Truth Page 16
