by Alex Kava
“Yes, it could. But remember the sequence was Harper, Wilson, Paltrow. It would be very unusual for a killer to change, to experiment, to escalate and then go back to the exact format. He uses one knife—something with a small blade—perhaps a fillet knife. Then he changes to a hunting knife, then back to the other knife. Even the styles are very different. The Harper and Paltrow murders are meticulous in detail. Both boys were murdered by someone taking his time—someone who enjoys inflicting pain. Very much like Danny Alverez’s murder. Bobby Wilson’s murder, however, looks like it was done in the heat of the moment with too much emotion and passion to pay any attention to detail.”
“You know, I always thought it seemed too easy,” Nick said wearily. “I’ve been wondering if my dad wasn’t so caught up in the media circus that he may have overlooked something.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you know how you hear about things getting missed in the excitement, the so-called rush to judgment? My dad’s always enjoyed being the center of attention. The year I started as quarterback for UNL, he’d meet me at the locker room, insisted on it, in fact—every single game. My mom said it was because he was so proud of me. Except there were too many times when he greeted the TV cameras before he even acknowledged me.”
Maggie listened patiently, then waited out his silence. Nick and his father obviously had a complex relationship. And though he was uncomfortable discussing it, she knew he was trying to tell her something important, something pertinent to the Jeffreys investigation. Did Nick really believe his father may have mishandled the case?
Finally, he glanced at her as though he’d read her thoughts.
“Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying my dad would purposely jeopardize any case. He’s very well respected and has been for years. In fact, I know I would never have been elected if I wasn’t Antonio Morrelli’s son. I’m just saying that it all seemed a bit too easy—the way my dad caught Jeffreys. One day there was an anonymous tip, and the next day they had Jeffreys babbling out a confession.”
“What kind of anonymous tip?”
“It was a phone call, I think. I don’t know for sure. I wasn’t living here at the time. I was teaching down at UNL, so I got most of this stuff secondhand. Isn’t there anything in the reports?”
Maggie searched through several file folders. She had read most of them and couldn’t remember any phone calls being mentioned. But she also had seen no phone logs of any kind, even for a hotline.
“I haven’t seen anything at all about an anonymous tip,” she said, handing him the file labeled Jeffreys’ Arrest. “What do you remember?”
He seemed flustered, and she wasn’t sure if it was his memory he questioned or his father. She watched him look over the reports filed and signed by Antonio Morrelli.
“Your father’s reports are very detailed, including a blow-by-blow of the actual arrest. He even includes the evidence they found in the trunk of Jeffreys’ Chevy Impala.” She checked her own notes and read the list. “They found a roll of duct tape, a hunting knife, some rope…wait a minute.”
She stopped to check that she had copied the list correctly. “A pair of boy’s underpants, which were later identified as belonging to…” She looked up at Nick, who had found the list in the report and was reading the same items she had in front of her. His eyes met hers, revealing he was thinking precisely what she was.
She continued, “A pair of underpants later identified as Eric Paltrow’s.”
Maggie rifled through the coroner’s report to double-check her memory, though she already knew what she would find.
“Eric Paltrow’s body was found with his underpants on.”
Nick shook his head in disbelief.
“I bet even Jeffreys was surprised to find all that stuff in his trunk.”
They stared at each other, neither wanting to acknowledge out loud what they had stumbled upon. Ronald Jeffreys had been framed for two murders he hadn’t committed, and there was a good chance the frame-up had been done by someone in the sheriff’s department.
CHAPTER 29
Tuesday, October 28
The day had not gone well, and Nick blamed the two hours of sleep in his office chair. Maggie had gone back to her hotel room at three in the morning to rest, shower and change. Instead of driving the five miles to his house in the country, Nick had fallen asleep at his desk. All day his neck and back had reminded him again that he was only four years away from forty.
His body certainly wasn’t what it used to be, although his concerns about sexual performance may have diminished thanks to Agent O’Dell. Last night, the touch of her lips against his fingers, the look in her eyes, the electricity. Jesus, he was grateful the county jail’s shower blasted only cold water. Even he had rules about married women. Now if only his body didn’t talk him into changing the rules.
Unfortunately, his stash of clean clothes at the office had been used up in the last few days. He had resorted to the uniform browns, a more appropriate choice for the morning press conference. Not that it had made a difference. The press conference had quickly turned into a lynch mob within minutes, especially after Christine’s morning headline: Sheriff’s Department Ignores Leads in Alverez Case.
He thought for sure Eddie had checked out where old lady Krichek lived, a long time ago, after her first call. Why the hell wouldn’t he have realized Krichek had a perfect view of the parking lot where Danny had been abducted? Jesus, he wanted to strangle Eddie or worse, offer him up to the media as a scapegoat. Instead, he let him off with a simple and private verbal lashing and a warning.
Hell, right now he needed every officer he had. It was no time to be losing his cool, which he almost did at the press conference when the questions got ugly. But O’Dell, in her calm and authoritative manner, had rapidly put things back in perspective. She had challenged the media to help find the mysterious blue pickup, making them a part of the hunt for the killer instead of hunting for faults in the sheriff’s department. He began wondering what he’d do without her and hoped he wouldn’t have to find out any time soon.
He turned the Jeep onto Christine’s street just as the sun made a rare appearance from a hole in the clouds, then sank slowly and gently behind a line of trees. It had gotten colder with a biting wind promising the temperature would drop even more.
Maggie had spent the entire trip next to him quietly buried in the Alverez file. Photos from the crime scene and her own Polaroids were scattered across her lap. She was obsessed with completing her profile as though it could somehow save Matthew Tanner. After an afternoon of contradictory leads and a string of unimpressive witnesses, Nick worried that it was too late. Since Matthew’s disappearance, a hundred and seventy-five deputies, police officers and independent investigators had been searching almost nonstop. Not one shred of evidence brought them closer to finding the boy. It really did seem as though someone had pulled up alongside Matthew and had him willingly get into his vehicle, just as Sophie Krichek had described.
If that was true, then there was a good chance the killer was someone the boys knew and trusted. Jesus, Nick would rather believe the boys were disappearing into thin air than being killed and mutilated by someone they knew. Someone who lived in the community. Maybe someone he knew.
Nick absently pulled into the driveway and hit the brakes, sending photos across the seat and onto the floor.
“Sorry.” He shoved the Jeep into park, his hand sliding along Maggie’s thigh. He jerked his hand away and reached to pick up the photos. Their arms crisscrossed each other. Their foreheads brushed. He handed her the photos he had retrieved, and she thanked him without looking at him. They had been tiptoeing around each other all day. He wasn’t sure if it was to avoid talking about their discovery in the Jeffreys case or to avoid touching one another.
At Christine’s door, Maggie’s cellular phone began ringing.
“Agent Maggie O’Dell.”
Christine motioned for them to come in. “I thought
for sure you’d cancel,” she whispered to Nick and led him to the living room, leaving Maggie to the privacy of the foyer.
“Because of the article?”
She looked surprised, as though she hadn’t even thought of the article. “No, because you’re swamped. You’re not mad about the article, are you?”
“Krichek is nutty as a fruitcake. I doubt she saw anything.”
“She’s convincing, Nicky. There’s nothing wrong with the lady. You should be looking for an old blue pickup.”
Nick eyed Maggie. He could see her pacing. He wished he could hear her conversation. Then, suddenly, he got his wish as her angry voice carried into the living room.
“Go to hell, Greg!” She snapped the phone shut and shoved it into her pocket. It began ringing again.
Christine looked at Nick, eyebrows raised.
“Who’s Greg?” she whispered.
“Her husband.”
“I didn’t know she was married.”
“Why wouldn’t she be?” he snapped, then regretted his abruptness as soon as he saw his sister’s smile.
“No wonder you’ve been on your best behavior with her.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, little brother, she’s gorgeous.”
“She’s also an FBI agent. This is strictly professional, Christine.”
“Since when has that stopped you? Remember that cute little attorney from the state attorney’s office? Wasn’t that supposed to be only professional?”
“She wasn’t married.” Or if he remembered correctly, at least, she was getting a divorce.
Maggie came in, that distraught look invading her face again.
“Sorry about that,” she said as she leaned against the doorjamb. “Lately, my husband has had the annoying tendency of pissing me off.”
“That’s why I got rid of mine,” Christine said with a smile. “Nicky, get Maggie some wine. I need to check up on dinner.” She patted Maggie on the shoulder on her way out.
The wine and glasses were on the coffee table in front of him. He poured, watching Maggie out of the corner of his eye. She paced, pretending to be interested in Christine’s decorating talents, but obviously distracted. She stopped at the window and stared out into the backyard. He picked up the glasses of wine and came alongside her, startling her.
“You okay?” He handed her the wine, hoping for a glimpse of her eyes.
“Have you ever been married, Nick?” She took the glass without looking at him, suddenly interested in the shadows swallowing Christine’s garden.
“No, I’ve done a pretty good job avoiding it.”
They stood quietly, side by side. Her elbow brushed his arm when she took a sip. He stood perfectly still, enjoying the surprising rise in his temperature the slight contact generated, and hoping for more. He waited for her to continue, wanting to hear how her marriage was falling apart. Then immediately, the guilt hit him. Perhaps to justify his thoughts, he said, “I couldn’t help noticing you don’t wear a wedding ring.”
She held up her hand as if to remind herself, then tucked it into her jacket pocket. “It’s at the bottom of the Charles River.
“Excuse me?” Without seeing her eyes, he wasn’t sure if it was a joke or not.
“About a year ago, we were dragging a floater from the river.”
“A floater?”
“A body that’s been in the water a while. The water was very cold. My ring must have slipped off.”
She kept her eyes ahead, and he followed her lead. As twilight set in, he could see her reflection in the glass. She was still thinking about the conversation with her husband. He wondered what he was like—the man who had, at one time, captured the heart of Maggie O’Dell. He wondered if Greg was some intellectual snob. He bet the guy didn’t even watch football, let alone like the Packers.
“You never replaced it?”
“No. I think maybe subconsciously I realized all those things it was supposed to symbolize were gone long before it fell to the bottom of the river.”
“Uncle Nick,” Timmy interrupted, running into the room and jumping up into Nick’s arms, giving Nick little time to even turn around. Immediately, he felt the results of his chair nap. His back screamed at him to put the boy down, but he spiraled Timmy around, hugging him close while his little legs threatened to knock down the knickknacks scattered about.
“You guys!” Christine yelled from the doorway. Then to Maggie, “It’s like having two kids in the house.”
Nick set Timmy down and gritted his teeth into a smile as he straightened out and absorbed the pain that trailed all the way down his spine. Jesus, he hated these physical reminders that he was getting older.
“Maggie, this is my son, Timmy. Timmy, this is Special Agent Maggie O’Dell.”
“So you’re an FBI agent just like Agent Mulder and Agent Scully on The X-Files?”
“Except I don’t track aliens. Although some of the people I track down are pretty scary.”
Nick was always amazed at the effect children had on women. He wished he could bottle it. Maggie tucked her hair behind her ear, and she was smiling. Her eyes sparkled. Her entire face seemed to relax.
“I have some X-Files posters in my bedroom. Would you like to see them?”
“Timmy, we’re going to eat soon.”
“Do we have time?” Maggie asked Christine.
Timmy waited for his mom’s “sure.” Then he grabbed Maggie’s hand and led her down the hall.
Nick didn’t say anything until they were out of earshot. “It’s nice to see he’s learning from the master. Although I’ve never thought of using the old line, ‘would you like to see my X-Files posters.’”
Christine rolled her eyes and threw a dish towel at him. “Come help. Oh, and bring me a glass of wine, too.”
CHAPTER 30
Maggie hated to admit that she had never watched The X-Files. Her lifestyle allowed little time for television or movies. Timmy, however, seemed unconcerned. Once in his room, he anxiously showed off everything, from models of the Starship Enterprise to his collection of fossils. One, he said with certainty, was a dinosaur tooth.
The small room was wonderfully cluttered. A baseball mitt hung on the bedpost. A Jurassic Park bedspread covered lumps she guessed were matching pajamas. On a corner bookshelf, an old microscope propped up copies of King Arthur, Galaxy of the Stars and The Collector’s Encyclopedia of Baseball Cards. The walls were hidden, plastered with an odd assortment of posters including The X-Files, the Nebraska Cornhuskers, Star Trek, Jurassic Park and Batman. She took it all in, not as an observant FBI agent, but as a twelve-year-old robbed of this part of her childhood.
Then she remembered her conversation with Greg. The tension was hard to shrug off. He had now accused her of ignoring her own mother. She reminded him that she was the one with the degree in psychology. It didn’t matter. He was still angry with her for ruining their anniversary and carried that anger like some trophy he had won that he deserved. How did they ever get to this point?
Timmy grabbed her hand again and led her to the dresser. He pointed to the empty hull of a horseshoe crab.
“My grandpa brought this home for me from Florida. He and Grandma travel a lot. You can touch it if you want.”
She ran her finger over the smooth shell. She noticed a photo behind the crab. About two dozen boys in matching T-shirts and shorts lined the inside of a canoe and the dock behind it. She recognized the boy at the front of the canoe and leaned in for a closer view. Her pulse quickened. She lifted the photo, careful not to disturb the crab. The boy was Danny Alverez.
“What’s this photo, Timmy?”
“Oh, that’s church camp. My mom made me go. I thought it’d ruin my summer, but it was fun.”
“Isn’t this boy Danny Alverez?” She pointed, and Timmy took a closer look.
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“So you knew him?”
“Not really.
He was down in the Red Robin cabins. I was in the Goldenrod.”
“Didn’t he go to your church?” She examined the other faces.
“No, I think he went to school and church out by the air force base. Do you want to see my baseball card collection?” He was already digging through the drawers of his nightstand.
Maggie wanted to know more about church camp. “How many boys were there at camp?”
“I don’t know. Lots.” He set a wooden box on the bed and began taking out cards. “They come from all over, different churches around the county.”
“Is it just for boys?”
“No, there’s girls, too, but their camp’s on the other side of the lake. Somewhere in here I’ve got a rookie Darryl Strawberry.” He sorted through piles he had scattered on the bed.
There were two adults in the photo. One was Ray Howard, the janitor from St. Margaret’s. The other was a tall, handsome man with dark curly hair and a boyish face. Both he and Howard wore gray T-shirts with St. Margaret’s written across the front.
“Timmy, who’s this guy in the photo?”
“Oh, that’s Father Keller. He’s really cool. I’m one of his altar boys this year. Not many boys get to be his altar boy. He’s really choosy.”
“How is he choosy?” She made sure that she sounded only interested, not alarmed.
“I don’t know. Just by making sure they’re reliable and stuff. He treats us special, sort of like our reward for being good altar boys.”
“How does he treat you special?”
“He’s taking us camping this Thursday and Friday. And sometimes he plays football with us. Oh, and he trades baseball cards. Once I traded him a Bob Gibson for a Joe DiMaggio.”
She started to put the photo back. Another face caught her eye. This time she almost dropped the frame. Her heart began to pound. Up on the dock, partially hidden behind a bigger boy, peered the small, freckled face of Matthew Tanner.
