2 - The Hunt

by Allison Brennan

  “Where was she?”

  “In the gully by the side of the road. I thought animal, bear, something—I didn’t have a gun, I mean I have one, but I don’t carry it around, you know? I yelled, tried to scare away whatever animal had terrified Sharon, and, and . . .” She stopped.

  “And?”

  “Nothing. I heard a sound behind me, I turned, and . . .” She paused, thinking. “I smelled something sweet. Sickly sweet. My head hurt, then nothing.”

  She looked at him again, her eyes bright with emotional pain.

  “Nothing until I woke up chained to a floor. I didn’t know why I was so cold until I realized I had no clothes on.”

  Nick’s office doubled as the task force room for the Butcher investigation. A map of the region south of the interstate all the way to West Yellowstone filled a good part of one wall. Colored pins marked where women had disappeared, where their bodies were found, and where they were held captive. A fine line traced the most likely route of their escape based on the evidence.

  Except for Sharon, none of the seven known victims had made it more than two miles. Sharon had been killed four miles from the shack; Miranda had fallen into the river another half-mile away.

  The remainder of the wall displayed a timeline with photographs and bullet-point information in Nick’s small, neat block letters.

  Quinn walked over to the board and reviewed the information he knew by heart, pleading for something to jump out at him.

  Penny Thompson. Missing: 5/14/91.

  Car abandoned in gully off Interstate 191, 2.7 miles from Super Joe’s Stop-n-Go.

  Penny filled her car at the Stop-n-Go at 10:46 p.m. Used rest room. Purchased a large Diet Pepsi and pretzels. Left approximately 10:55 p.m.

  There had been no security camera on the pumps where Penny had left her vehicle.

  At the time, the police treated Penny’s case as a Missing Person with possible foul play. Because there was a small amount of blood on the steering wheel and it appeared her car crashed into the gulley, they never ruled out an accidental death. They didn’t know they had a serial killer; Sheriff Donaldson felt her ex-boyfriend had killed her and dumped her car as a ruse, but couldn’t find any proof to support his accusation. It wasn’t until three years later that she was recognized as the likely first victim of the Butcher.

  Two years later, Dora Feliciano disappeared. She didn’t own a vehicle, but was walking home from work in downtown Bozeman. There was still a question as to whether the Butcher was responsible for her disappearance. The Sheriff’s Department looked heavily at her live-in boyfriend, who had no alibi for the time, but no solid evidence connected him with her disappearance.

  It wasn’t until Colleen Thorne, Quinn’s partner, came to Montana three years ago, after the Croft sisters disappeared, that Dora was even put on the board. Colleen’s reasoning was that the Butcher was still developing his strategy. Dora had been an easy target—walking alone late at night. Bozeman was a low-crime town; most women used to feel safe.

  Miranda Moore and Sharon Lewis. Disappeared 5/27/94. Sharon killed 6/2. Miranda found by Sheriff’s search team.

  Quinn’s entire body shuddered remembering how close Miranda had been to dying. What she’d endured at the hands of the Butcher, her will to live, her escape.

  The information on Miranda’s sheet was longer, more detailed. That was when they’d realized they had a premeditated abduction on their hands. That they had a serial killer. They went back to Penny Thompson’s case, but her father had long since gotten rid of her car and when the police tracked it down, the new owner said the carburetor had been so gummed up that he’d picked up a rebuilt carb and replaced it. The original had been junked.

  In June of 1997, Susan Kramer and her roommate Jenny Williams disappeared. They immediately were considered victims of the Butcher because their abandoned car had molasses in the gas tank. Four months later, deer hunters came across Susan’s body. It wasn’t in good condition, but was identifiable through the autopsy. She’d been shot in the leg and chest.

  Jenny’s body was never found.

  Nineteen ninety-nine was a banner year for the Butcher, Quinn thought with disgust. Three missing women from the University, all abducted separately, three weeks apart, starting on April twenty-eighth. None of their bodies was ever recovered. And in 2001 another woman, a freshman biology major from Florida, disappeared, leaving behind her disabled car three miles from her last stop.

  Karen Papadopoulis’s case was different only in that her body was discovered before her vehicle, which had been concealed off a little-used road west of Old Norris in neighboring Madison County. She’d been shot in the thigh by a high-velocity rifle, but that wasn’t what killed her.

  Her throat had been slit.

  Quinn turned from the board with the familiar uneasy anger that the Butcher was smart and cunning and would keep on killing until he made a mistake. But he hadn’t made a mistake yet.

  “So we know the unsub has a vehicle,” Quinn said as he paced. “But he can’t drive all the way to the shack. All the women were slight, under 130 pounds. A man in shape could carry them.”

  “Or drag them on a makeshift sled.”

  “True, but we haven’t seen evidence of that type of tracks, have we?”

  Nick shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, so he carried the girls up there. Sometimes two.”

  “Separately?”

  “Most likely.”

  The Butcher was patient. Methodical. A planner. He had to have laid out his route before the abductions; the shack would have been prepared with chains and a lock on the door. He was strong enough to transport a slender woman over steep terrain, probably driving a four-wheel-drive as close as he could get before hoofing it.

  They’d never found evidence that he used a horse, but Quinn couldn’t rule it out. Since the Butcher was methodical, he could have painstakingly covered up horse tracks.

  Quinn focused again on the map, his chin resting on his hand.

  “The cabins are all fairly close, three to five miles, to some sort of road, or an unused, overgrown trail,” he said. It wasn’t a new revelation; he was simply trying to think of the investigation from another angle. “We’ve already determined that he’s strong, but in addition to muscles, he has to be accustomed to long, arduous manual labor.

  “Nothing came of the property search,” Quinn continued. They’d run ownership records in the areas the other women were held in and came back with as many owners as cabins. “What about where Rebecca was found?”

  “It’s private property, a thousand-acre spread owned by a Hollywood type. He comes up once, twice a year. He probably doesn’t even know the shack is on his land. His spread is on the other end.”

  “Have you checked him out?”

  Nick paused. “No.”

  Quinn frowned. “What about his house?”

  “He has a caretaker.”

  “I’ll go check it out.”

  Nick’s jaw tightened, and Quinn suspected Nick felt he’d neglected something. While it was an important avenue in the investigation, Quinn also worried Nick would feel threatened, especially after the negative spotlight the press was shining on the Sheriff’s Department.

  “It’s a long shot,” he told Nick. Nick didn’t look placated.

  “I’ll go pull the records on the property. Be back in a minute.” Nick left.

  Quinn watched him close the door and frowned. Nick was letting the press get to him, and that wasn’t a good sign. Colleen had given him a rundown, and labeled the Sheriff’s Department under Nick’s command as “very competent,” but noted that the previous sheriff had been more lax in his reports and investigation, particularly with the missing girls. Quinn made a mental note to call Colleen in the morning and see if she had any further insight.

  He turned back to the board. The key profile points of the Butcher were listed on the far right.

  White male age 35-45.

  Born or rai
sed in Montana; superior knowledge of area.

  Familiar with MSU; former student, professor or staff.

  Molasses in the gas tank to disable the car; is there a reason for this trademark, or just convenience and effectiveness?

  During World War II, American troops had disabled German tanks with sugar. It was a well-known tactic, displayed prominently on revenge-oriented websites. The FBI profiler Vigo considered that the Butcher might have once been in the military, but dismissed it. “He wouldn’t have volunteered, and he’s too young to have been drafted,” he’d told Quinn twelve years ago.

  They had a list of all the students, professors, and staff that fit the profile at the time Miranda was abducted. There were hundreds of them.

  When they learned Penny was probably the first victim, it was three years too late. They still ran the records, ending up with hundreds of white males under thirty-five who had had contact with Penny on at least a casual basis.

  Nick stepped back into the room and handed Quinn a note. “Here’s the information about the spread, the caretaker, and the owner.”

  “Thanks.” Quinn pocketed the slip of paper. “Where are the files from the Penny Thompson investigation?”

  “In archives.”

  “Including the University records?”

  “Hers? Or the suspects’?”

  “All the men who had known her.”

  “Those totaled in the hundreds.”

  “I know.”

  “They were returned to the University.”

  Shit. He’d have to get a warrant because of the Privacy Act.

  Quinn ran a hand through his hair. “We need to get them back. We’ve already determined that Penny was likely the first victim. After fifteen years, we can rule out most of those men on the list, but we have to go through them one by one. Cross off those who are married, dead, or moved far from the area. It at least gives us a place to start.”

  “It sounds like a long shot.”

  “I don’t know that anything will come of it,” Quinn said, his voice surprisingly bitter. “I really hate serial killers. They’re smarter, shrewder, harder to pin down. Their mistakes are usually small. But this is all we’ve got.”

  Quinn didn’t want to jump down Nick’s throat again. He’d already made it clear this morning that following up on Penny’s abduction was crucial.

  Instead, he asked, “Did you ever wonder why the killer didn’t come after Miranda after she escaped?”

  Nick looked surprised. “Actually, no.”

  “I have. I’ve thought about it a lot. All my training says that the killer would hate her for getting away, a mistake, his screwup. He considers himself superior to women, or feels a driving need to prove his superiority because he felt inferior as a boy. He hates women. It’s about control. Domination. But he couldn’t control Miranda.

  “The fact that Miranda got away should enrage him,” Quinn continued. “But he’s never gone after her. Which leaves me with the conclusion that he’s proud of her in some fashion. Or, that he keeps her alive to remind him of something. The hunt, or that he lost his prize.”

  “That she beat him in the hunt?”

  Quinn rubbed his forehead. “It just doesn’t make sense. He should want revenge. He should have gone after her. Instead, it’s as if he respects her enough to stay away.

  “And that, Nick, goes against the grain and makes me think we could be looking in all the wrong places.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  By the time Quinn pulled up next to Miranda’s Jeep at the Lodge, it was nearly midnight and he was physically exhausted. His mind, however, had different plans and moved in all directions.

  The lights were on in the restaurant and he saw Miranda’s father and his jack-of-all-trades partner Ben Grayhawk sitting at the bar. Bill motioned him over, and Quinn slid onto the stool next to him.

  “Bill. Gray. Good to see you again.”

  Gray held up his glass of amber liquid and arched his brow in question. “It’s the good stuff.”

  “Thanks,” Quinn said. A double Scotch might slow down his mind enough so that he could sleep a couple of hours.

  Bill reached above the bar and picked a glass off the rack, then poured Quinn a hefty shot from a half-empty bottle of Glenlivet.

  “Salut,” Bill said.

  Quinn raised his glass and took a long sip. The Scotch slid down his throat like liquid glass and he sighed approvingly.

  They sat in silence for several minutes. “You didn’t tell Miranda I was here,” Quinn said.

  Bill shook his head. “I didn’t want an argument. Randy can be mighty stubborn.”

  “I don’t want to interfere with your relationship,” Quinn said.

  “You won’t.”

  “I appreciate the hospitality.”

  Bill finished his Scotch and poured a short shot. “Randy says you found the shack where poor Rebecca Douglas was held.”

  “Yeah. She’s a good tracker.” Better than good, Quinn thought.

  “Damn straight. She’s a smart girl,” Gray said.

  Quinn remembered his interview with Ryan Parker and his friends. “Gray, I meant to ask you. Did you talk to Ryan Parker about an old Indian burial ground up north of the ridge? Few miles east of the river?”

  Gray cracked a smile, revealing crooked white teeth. “Yeah, I did. The boys come down here on their horses on occasion; we have some good trails for exploring. They’d heard about it, of course. Kids at school say it’s haunted, and you can only find it at night on a full moon.” He croaked out a laugh, then coughed.

  “You been there?”

  Gray shook his head. “Naw. Don’t even know if it really exists. Suspect it does; I’ve heard of the place since I was a boy. But my ma never knew where it was. We were always looking for it, though. Kept us out of trouble.” He paused. “Does this have to do something with the murder?”

  Quinn shook his head. “Doubt it. Just checking the kids’ story.”

  “Ryan’s a good boy,” Gray said.

  “You close to the Parkers?”

  “Not really. But I teach a gun safety class. Had Ryan last year with the older McClain boy. And like I said, they ride our trails around here, I want to make sure they know the rules.”

  Bill stood. “You’re welcome to sit down here as long as you like, or take the bottle to your room. I need to be up early, so I’d best be hitting the sack.”

  Quinn drained his glass and shook his head. “Thanks for the conversation.” He bid them farewell and went up to his room.

  An hour later, he was still awake. His mind couldn’t stop thinking about why the Butcher never went after Miranda again. Somehow, he thought it was important, but for the life of him, he didn’t know why.

  He turned on the lights and sat at the desk. He jotted cryptic notes to himself that only he could understand.

  Vigo . Hans Vigo was a top profiler with the department, as well as a friend. Maybe he had some new insights.

  Old cases. He needed to review the case files of the victims again. Maybe there was a common thread—other than their gender and age—that tied them all together. Or maybe Miranda was unique. Why? Why was she spared? Yes, she escaped, but she’d have been considered a liability.

  Wouldn’t she?

  Penny Thompson.

  First thing in the morning, Quinn planned to head over to the University and pull every string he knew to get those old records.

  Olivia.

  It was two in the morning in Virginia, far too late to call Olivia, though he knew she wouldn’t mind. He’d call her in the morning and ask if she had some time to help with trace evidence at the state laboratory in Helena. It would take diplomacy to bring a federal crime tech into the state lab, but Quinn was confident in both his ability to maneuver it and Olivia’s ability to keep the relationship cordial.

  Finally, he realized why he couldn’t sleep. Hunger. He and Nick had grabbed a quick burger that he’d left half-eaten at the station. />
  Knowing Bill wouldn’t mind if he raided the kitchen, Quinn went downstairs to make himself a sandwich.

  Sharon slept and Miranda planned.

  There had to be a way out. Some way. Any way.

  Though blindfolded, she knew it was daytime. Not because of the light, but because of the lack of cold.

  She didn’t think she’d ever be warm again. At night she feared she’d freeze to death. But it never got that cold. Just cold enough that she couldn’t stop shivering. Just cold enough that she couldn’t feel her fingers and toes.

  She’d gotten past wishing for her down comforter or hot coffee. At this point, warmth was a luxury. Survival was the only thing on her mind.

  Two things clawed at her.

  Would he keep them here forever? Feeding them bread and water and making them lie in their own filth?

  Or would he kill them when he tired of hurting them?

  Freedom wasn’t an option. She sensed without him saying anything that he’d never release them. For the first three days she’d pleaded with him. But she knew. His lack of response told her he had no intention of ever letting them go.

  She must have dozed off, because the sound of metal on metal startled her.

  Click click.

  He was unlocking the door of the room they lay in. She squirmed, her instincts demanding that she flee, but she was trapped on the floor, chained to the rough, cold wood.

  Not again. Not again.

  The rattle of chains woke Sharon. “No!” she screamed through her raw throat. “No, no! Please!” She started sobbing, but Miranda remained silent.

  She had no more tears, no more pleas. He was coming to rape them or kill them. She was going to die.

  Daddy, I love you. I love you and I’m so sorry. I hope you never know what happened to me. It would tear you apart.

  She missed her father, longed to see him and have him hold her and stroke her hair, like he did when she was a little girl after her mother died.

  “She’s in Heaven, darling,” he’d tell her, then murmur pretty words about what a wonderful, beautiful, painless place Heaven was.