Web of Secrets

by Susan Sleeman

  Okay, so they were back to business. “We ruled out two of the girls based on height. Sam’s talking to one of the girls’ foster parents right now. He thinks she’s a match for Jane Doe Four. You should also know, she’s been arrested for credit card fraud in the past.”

  “So she could be one of the kids in my investigation.” Becca shook her head. “It’s so hard to wrap my mind around the fact that she could also be one of Van Gogh’s victims.”

  “Both investigations involve foster kids, so it’s not too farfetched, I suppose.”

  Becca peered at him, her eyes creased in sadness. “Those poor parents. They opened their home and took in this girl. Now she’s been murdered.” She paused and looked like she was trying to gain control of her emotions. “I hate it, you know. But on the bright side, it’s about time we catch a break on this case.”

  REGINALD’S HEART BEAT a mile a minute as he tapped 911 on the prepaid cell phone and waited for the operator to answer. He’d gotten a good night’s sleep, and he could think of no better way to start the day, other than actually sitting across the small breakfast table from Lauren.

  “911. What’s your emergency?” The operator’s pleasant voice came over the phone and the reality of his task hit him full on.

  He was suddenly glad Mother had talked him into calling 911 instead of the detectives. It was safer, she’d said. Less intimidating. He held the voice scrambler over the phone.

  “I want to report the location of another girl just like the ones they found in the park,” he said, almost giggling at how he was enticing the police to act. “You know . . . the ones that were buried.”

  “You want to report a buried girl?” She sounded confused.

  Of course. She was just an operator and wouldn’t be in the loop about the girls, yet.

  “Yes.” He loved the sound of his altered voice reverberating through the room. “Call PPB detectives or better yet, Agent Rebecca Lange with the FBI. They’ll want the information.”

  “Your name?”

  “Ah yes. My name. Van Gogh, of course. Vincent van Gogh. And you’ll need my address.” He spoke slowly and carefully as he gave her the address for the fabrication plant. He made her repeat it back to him so he was sure she hadn’t made a mistake in entering it into her computer. “I look forward to seeing the detectives and Agent Lange.” He disconnected.

  Imagining the detective and Becca sitting at their desks, then getting this call, he dropped the phone into the dumpster in a dirty alley on the east side.

  He’d waited sixteen years for this moment. . . . Now the big reveal was only moments away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  IT WAS A NEW DAY, a new chance to catch Van Gogh. But Connor didn’t like what he was hearing from Sam, who was seated across the small table in the PPB conference room. Dental records provided by the foster parents Sam had interviewed positively identified Jane Doe Four, as they suspected. Phoebe Quade had been a runaway. Her foster parents had said she’d been just plain trouble, so they hadn’t bothered looking for her, figuring she’d take off again.

  Becca had expressed her concern over this family suffering, but when he called to tell her about Phoebe’s treatment, he knew Becca would be furious. Shoot, he was furious. No kid deserved this.

  “They threw her away,” Connor mumbled, his mind filled with disgust.

  “It was hard to hear them say it.” Sam eyes narrowed. “At least they reported her missing.”

  “I guess they think that absolves them of the responsibility they promised to fulfill.”

  Shaking his head, Connor went to the murder board and jotted Phoebe’s name on his crime-scene drawing. It gave him something to do, shifting their focus to actionable items rather than dwelling on something they couldn’t control. “So we’ve identified two of the four girls. Other than the fact that they’d run away from home, what do we have that can connect them?”

  “So far, all I have is that they were both in the system,” Sam said. “Van Gogh has made it clear that he’s still targeting foster girls.”

  “So how does he find them?”

  “Maybe he has a connection to DHS, a caseworker or another affiliated position.”

  “That seems logical.” Connor jotted the question on their board.

  “I’ll take a look at caseworkers,” Sam said. “Maybe there’s someone still working in the foster care department who was there in the nineties. I’ll also talk to the girls’ caseworkers to see if there’s any connection.”

  “I’ll follow up with Dr. Williams. And Marcie requested the records from Jane Doe One’s murder, so I’ll check in to see how she’s doing with that.” Connor noted both items on the board. “I’m going to interview Detective Orman’s daughter, too.” He added that note and turned to find one of their clerks poking her head into the room.

  “I’ve got a 911 operator on line eight who wants to talk to the detective working with Agent Lange.” The woman sounded very harried for so early in the morning. “One of you want to take that call?”

  Connor shared a confused look with Sam.

  “I could take a message,” she offered.

  Connor waved her off. “I got it.”

  After a quick smile of thanks, she departed.

  Connor crossed to the phone, closing the door on his way.

  “I’ll put her on speaker.” He punched the button and answered.

  The operator identified herself, but it wasn’t necessary. Connor recognized her voice from his time as a patrol officer. “I just received a very odd call. It was a guy who claims he has information about another girl like the ones buried in the park.”

  Connor snapped his chair forward. “Is he still on the phone?”

  “No. He hung up. But before he did, he said to call PPB detectives or Agent Rebecca Lange. Since he was talking about bodies, I called homicide.” She sighed. “I think he was using one of those voice scrambler things. Or he just has a really weird voice. I figured it was a prank call, but I wanted to follow up anyway.”

  “Exactly what did he say?” Sam asked.

  “Not a whole lot. He told me about the body, gave his address, and said he was looking forward to seeing you. Oh, and he said his name was Vincent van Gogh, which has to be a prank right?”

  “Hold on a sec.” Connor grabbed a pen and paper. “Give me the address.”

  She fired it off and he jotted it down. Sam snatched the page, then started typing the address into his laptop.

  “I’ll need you to email a recording of his call ASAP.” Connor opened the Internet on his own computer.

  “So this is for real?” she asked.

  “Likely a prank as you said, but we have to check it out.” No way was Connor going to tell her about the bodies and have this case explode in the media. “I want two units dispatched to secure the address he reported, and I’ll need the officers’ cell numbers so I can coordinate.”

  While waiting for her to dispatch the officers, Connor plugged the address into his map program on the computer. The operator soon came back on the line and gave him the officers’ phone numbers before disconnecting.

  Connor zoomed in on the map. “Industrial area. Northeast. Near the airport.”

  “I’ve got the tax records,” Sam said from behind his computer. “Property’s owned by the city. It looks like it was a metal fabrication plant. The company went bankrupt, and the city took over when the company failed to pay the property taxes.”

  Connor switched to street view to get a good look at the place. “There are far too many exits in the building for you and me to cover. We’ll need SWAT.”

  Sam looked up. “What about Becca? Want to include her in this?”

  Connor didn’t even need to think about it. No way he’d put Becca near a reported Van Gogh sighting. He shook his head.
>
  Sam arched a brow. “Is that a personal response or professional one?”

  Connor thought about it. “Both I guess. I don’t want her to get hurt and it could just be a prank. So why get her out there for nothing? Besides, she wouldn’t be much help in a raid. If we do find another body, we can bring her in then.”

  Sam watched him for a few moments, then shrugged. “Your call. But prepare yourself. She’s bound to be mad.”

  Connor imagined her reaction, and he knew he’d be in for a tongue-lashing. But he’d deal with that when and if the time came.

  “I’ll update Vance and get the approval for an assist from SWAT.” Connor snatched up the address and jogged to his lieutenant’s office.

  It didn’t take him long to receive SWAT approval and within the hour, the entire team was standing in full tactical gear in front of the warehouse, waiting for Connor’s direction.

  He ran his gaze over the long building nearly the length of a football field. The main door was secured with a padlock, but that wouldn’t have stopped anyone from entering the building through broken windows and rotting wood.

  Connor checked with Sam. He nodded his readiness, and Connor gave the signal to proceed.

  The SWAT commander directed the front team to the door. They stacked in a line and the commander cut the lock. Unlike TV shows where detectives run in first, Connor and Sam brought up the rear. SWAT wore tactical vests, helmets, and other protections where Sam’s and Connor’s vests were lighter weight. It would have been foolish for them to go in first and take a potential rifle round to the gut.

  Once the door was open, the men moved in like a swarm of bees, fanning out in the large space. Several stepped to a door on the left, and others went straight in, their footsteps sounding like an army and ringing to the high rafters. Connor and Sam followed the second team, then held position behind a large machine.

  Connor soon heard, “Clear,” called from all directions, indicating that the peripheral rooms were safe. One man was stationed at the entrance and the rest of the team moved forward, reaching the end of the building without locating a person or a body. Or even a place where a body could be buried.

  Only one door remained, and it boasted a shiny new padlock.

  “Bust it open,” the commander ordered.

  An officer quickly took care of the lock and jerked the door wide. “Basement.”

  The strong caustic odor of bleach drifted up. Connor got a bad feeling in his gut. Bleach was often used to clean up blood and cover a trail. He wanted to get down there and check it out, but heading into the unknown, unprotected, was dangerous. It was a task best left to SWAT.

  The officer snapped on the light and stepped through the door. He lowered his shield and slowly descended.

  “We have a body,” he called out.

  He disappeared into the basement, but soon charged back up the steps gagging and drawing in deep breaths. “It’s a female in a white gown laid out on a table. She’s obviously been there for a few days. Otherwise, we’re clear.”

  Connor glanced at Sam, his expression grim and angry.

  The team leader raised his visor, his eyes filled with questions he didn’t ask and probably didn’t want to know the answer to. “You’re clear to go in.”

  Connor made his way down the stairs, his gun drawn and at the ready. These guys might have pronounced it safe, but Connor wasn’t taking any chances. He heard Sam’s footsteps close behind.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the unmistakable stench of death mixed with bleach greeted him in the airless hole in the ground. He covered his mouth and nose, then looked around. The room was cold and stuffy, the ceilings low, and the walls made of stone. With no windows and only a single light bulb hanging overhead, the room closed in on Connor.

  The space looked much like an old-fashioned root cellar, he supposed. Shelves lined one wall with old metal castings discarded on them. Shackles were bolted to the far wall, low to the floor. A long, rough-hewn table sat in the middle of the floor and held the body covered with a fine wire mesh cage. The body, as the officer had said, was female. Her ears had been removed and she was wearing a similar white gown to the girls in the park. But she definitely wasn’t a fifteen-year-old girl.

  She’d been sealed in a large plastic bag that looked like it once covered a mattress, which thankfully kept the bugs away. Unfortunately, he suspected it would have also kept the body warm and hastened decomp.

  “An adult female.” Sam came to stand next to Connor.

  Together they approached the body. The smell intensified. Connor gagged and forced himself to ignore the disgusting odor. He straightened the plastic to get a better look at the woman’s face.

  “The fact that she’s in the bag might make it hard to determine her time of death.” Sam snapped on gloves. “At least it’s cold down here. Hopefully, that will counterbalance the effect of the plastic.”

  Connor moved down to her hands. “We should still be able to get a print. Let’s take some pictures and cut this bag open to better see what we’re dealing with.”

  “Right.” The word stretched out in Sam’s Texan drawl. “Cut the bag. That’s exactly what I want to do.”

  “It can’t be helped. I’ll get my camera and the fingerprint scanner.” Connor knew Sam would have something to say about his recent purchase so he gave Sam a pointed look and waited for it.

  “Okay, fine,” Sam said reluctantly. “I’m glad you bought the scanner. Now go.”

  Connor didn’t need further encouragement to leave this horrific stench behind. He took the stairs two at a time. Upstairs, he gulped in deep breaths, then when he hit the crisp fall breeze blowing outside the building, he took a few minutes to focus on pulling in even more. Never had fresh air smelled so good.

  SWAT was packing up, but the patrol officers would remain on site as long as Connor and Sam directed them to. Connor stopped to instruct them to set up a perimeter, and for one of them to serve as officer of record at the entrance. Connor also phoned Dane, asking him to assign someone else to help Dr. Williams at the clearing and to get over here ASAP.

  Connor dug behind his seat and located the tote bag holding his essentials, including his camera and the print scanner. He returned to the basement and handed a sketchbook to Sam. “Dane’s on his way.”

  “I called in to request Marcie, too,” Sam said, flipping open his sketchbook. “She’s in a meeting, but she’ll be free in about an hour. I’d like to move forward, but she’s worth waiting for.”

  “Agreed.” Connor snapped a photo of the plastic-encased woman while Sam started measuring and drawing on his sketchpad.

  When Connor finished taking photos, he looked at Sam. “You ready to help me take her prints?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” Sam snapped his Leatherman tool from his belt and sliced down the middle of the bag. The smell ballooned out like the fallout from a nuclear bomb, sending them both back to the entrance.

  When Connor adjusted to the odor, he returned to the body. Her face had been badly beaten and he cringed when he spotted cigarette burns on her arms, missing fingers, and the nails pulled out of others.

  “You think the girls went through this kind of abuse, too?” Sam asked.

  “There was no mention of torture or abuse in the old case files.”

  “So maybe, since she’s an adult, Van Gogh’s motive was different.”

  Connor looked at her face again. “He still took her ears and dressed her in a gown.”

  “Let’s get the prints. If we get a match, maybe her ID will shed some light on this scenario.”

  Connor took out the electronic device that looked like a smart phone. He turned it on and pressed the victim’s index finger, then her thumb on the screen and saved it. He had to connect to the computer in his car to see if there was a match in AFIS. “
I’ll upload this to my computer and be right back.”

  “I could use some fresh air,” Sam said, sounding uncharacteristically morose. “I’ll come with you.”

  They wasted no time exiting the building. Connor was glad to see the officers had cordoned off the area, with one standing duty at the door as he’d directed.

  The officer lifted the logbook to show he was doing his job. “How’s it going down there?”

  “Let’s just say it’s a good day not to be a detective,” Connor said in passing.

  He stepped to his car, sent the prints, and tried for a moment to forget the woman in the basement. He liked his job, really he did. But ever since catching this Van Gogh case, he was questioning so many things.

  Things like . . . if the job was still the only thing worth living for, as it had been for him the last two years. At the moment, he’d give it all up for what his siblings had. A wife, a family, and life in a small community where everyone cared for one another. A place where people weren’t viciously beaten and murdered.

  The computer dinged, and both Connor and Sam turned their attention to the screen.

  “A match,” Sam said excitedly from where he leaned on the doorframe.

  Connor opened the file and stared at the name. It had been added to AFIS after a fingerprint check for teacher clearance. Molly Park, maiden name Underhill.

  “Man, oh man.” He shook his head. “It can’t be. Poor Becca.”

  Sam shot a look at Connor. “You think this is her friend Molly?”

  “The age is right. Let me check to see if the maiden name matches the name Becca gave me.” He swiveled to dig through his bag where he kept his notes on the investigation. He flipped pages until he found the right one. “Name and birth date match.”

  Sam let out a low whistle. “So Molly did get away from Van Gogh back in the nineties.”

  The sick irony left Connor with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Only to have him catch her—and kill her—sixteen years later.”

  Chapter Nineteen