Never Look Back

by Burton, Mary

“Yes,” she said quickly.

  “The driver of the white van removed the VIN numbers from the dashboard and the door and the engine block,” he said without fanfare.

  She relaxed back against the headrest. “You sound a little too happy. Something tells me this story doesn’t end here.”

  “The former owner also took the initiative to etch the VIN number on the underside of the engine block.”

  “That’s my kind of paranoid.”

  “A trace of the vehicle shows it was purchased in Atlanta, Georgia, ten years ago from a used car dealership.”

  She waited for the punch line.

  “Long story short, the van was traced to a man by the name of Edward Mecum.”

  “And who is Mr. Mecum? Assuming that’s his real name.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine, but according to an FBI database search, he has no criminal record.”

  “I don’t hear dejection in your voice.” She ran her fingers over the steering wheel, watching as a group of middle-aged tourists entered one of the landmark cowboy boot shops on the street.

  “I contacted the car dealership in Atlanta.”

  “And?”

  “No record of sale for the older van, but the manager did say that he sold a similar white van this morning to a man who paid cash. The buyer’s name was Edward Mecum and he had a limp.”

  She had jabbed that knife hard into his thigh and twisted it for good measure. She took some satisfaction knowing she had hurt him good.

  “I don’t suppose Edward Mecum gave the dealer an address?”

  “He was required to.”

  She leaned forward. “And?”

  “I have an address of a property that’s located thirty miles outside of Nashville.”

  “You know how to make a girl’s day.” A man flipped the CLOSED sign to OPEN in the Red’s window.

  “How soon can you meet me?” he asked.

  “Give me a half hour,” she said. “I’m on Lower Broadway. Just spoke to Jennifer Brown’s boss and want to follow up on a lead. I’ll update you when I see you.”

  “I’ll pick you up at the office.”

  “Bring burgers. I’m starving.”

  He chuckled. “Will do.”

  She grabbed her bag, slid out of the car, and strode toward the bar’s entrance. She was greeted by the faint scent of beer and cigarettes. There was a long bar covered in a thick coat of polyurethane. Behind it, rows of liquor bottles peered down from terraced shelves. Above the bottles was a collection of red cowboy hats.

  “Hello?” she said.

  A man pushed through swinging doors, wiping gnarled hands on a bar towel as he approached her. A sweep of his gaze seemed to be enough to tell him she was not here for a drink. “What can I do for you?”

  She held up her badge and identified herself as TBI. “Came to ask you about a customer. Her name is Jennifer Brown. She dated a bartender by the name of Billy.”

  He nodded. “Blond. Big boobs.”

  “She’s in her late thirties.”

  “Yeah, I remember her. What do you want to know?”

  “Was there anyone here who hassled her or maybe paid her too much attention?”

  “She was a flirt. Knew how to use those tits to get men to pay attention. But she was dating Billy and stayed close to the bar.”

  “And after they broke up, did she keep coming around?”

  “Yeah. Saw her in here about two weeks ago. She left with a guy, but I couldn’t tell you who he was.”

  “You have surveillance cameras in here?”

  “I do, but the recording only lasts two weeks.”

  “She was last seen on August sixteenth. That will put us in that two-week window. I need you to pull it for me.”

  “What’s the deal? Is Jennifer in some kind of trouble?”

  “Someone killed her,” she said.

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, shit is right.” She removed a business card from her wallet. “Call me when you have those recordings later today.”

  “Sure.”

  She stepped outside into the bright sunshine, her gaze skimming the businesses around Red’s. How many had surveillance cameras?

  In her car, she started the engine and called Agent Jackson and updated him on both cases as she drove through town. He pledged to send officers to the businesses around Red’s. If there was footage, it would be recovered.

  Ten minutes later, Melina pulled into the TBI parking lot, where Ramsey waited in his black SUV. She locked her car, got into the passenger seat, and placed her backpack between her feet.

  He handed her a cup of coffee, which she gratefully accepted. It tasted sweet, like two-packets-of-sugar sweet. She checked the burger. No cheese. “And how did you know I don’t like cheese?”

  “Because I’m not a fan,” he said.

  “Lucky guess, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Your powers of observation are a little too keen for me.” As she sipped her coffee, she updated him on Red’s and the hunt for camera footage.

  “We might get lucky with the video surveillance at Red’s. Most killers like the two we are dealing with are creatures of habit,” he said.

  “Wouldn’t that be nice?” She bit into the hamburger. Not bad. If she had had her way, she would have adjusted the relish-to-ketchup-to-mustard ratio, but she was too hungry to complain.

  “Andy did a quick search on Edward Mecum. I can tell you he comes from money. He was married twice and has two children and several grandchildren with the second wife. He lives off his investments. He has several properties north of Nashville. As tempting as it is to reach out to his family, I don’t want to spook him now. Better to learn all we can about him before we approach the family.”

  “Agreed.”

  “According to county utility records, the house account billing is current.”

  She plucked a fresh napkin from the stack. “There are areas north of Nashville that are very isolated. If a woman were held there, no one would ever know it.”

  Images of the van’s interior appeared in her mind and then quickly switched to the pictures of the dead prostitutes’ wrists. All were ringed with red marks left by too-tight handcuffs.

  “What happened to the first wife?” Melina asked.

  “She divorced him in 1999.”

  “Divorced in 1999? The killings started in ’99, correct?” Melina asked.

  Life stressors for an individual with homicidal fantasies could send them over the edge. In Mecum’s case, the stress was not money but perhaps a divorce.

  “Do you know anything about the ex-wife?” she asked.

  “I haven’t been able to locate her yet,” Ramsey said. “We’re working on it.”

  “It’s been twenty-one years since the divorce and there’s no record of her?”

  “No.”

  In Melina’s experience, women living normal lives did not generally fall off the radar. “Any children in the relationship?”

  “Not according to public records.”

  Confirming for her that blessings came in all forms, and a childless marriage for a guy who liked to cut up prostitutes was one.

  “Mecum does have a law degree, but he never practiced,” Ramsey offered. “Family money meant he didn’t have to work.”

  “What about his parents or siblings?” she asked.

  “No siblings. Mother died of cancer fifty years ago and father died in a car crash when the boy was fourteen.”

  She shifted and drank her coffee. The caffeine was kicking in and sharpening her senses.

  They drove in silence up I-24 north until the city gave way to strip malls and then finally rolling hillsides. Ramsey followed the winding roads until his GPS alerted him that the address was fast approaching. Melina had to look twice to spot the mailbox covered in thick twisting vines. He slowed and turned into the dirt driveway that wound up a hill.

  “This is some property,” she said.

  Ramsey drove
up the steep driveway, maneuvering around the switchbacks with practiced ease. He rounded the last corner, and the SUV suddenly nosed into a circular driveway with a brick house with a wide front porch. The lights were off in the house, and the two rockers on the porch looked as if they had spent the better part of the winter and summer exposed to the elements. The shades on all the windows were drawn. The yard looked as if no one had been there in months.

  Ramsey shut off the engine and they both got out. They shifted so that their weapons were easily accessible as they walked up the gravel pathway to the front steps. As she stood to the side, Ramsey tried the front door. After discovering it was locked, he banged his fist on the door.

  The sound echoed in the house, rattling around like a marble in an empty jar. She peered between the window frames and the shades covering them. Each sliver of opening revealed views into what appeared to be empty rooms.

  “How long has he owned this property?” she asked.

  “Thirty years.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  “Serial killers generally begin with violent fantasies and then graduate to arson and then rape. Out here, he could have had total control over his victims.”

  “As far as we know, he’s killed prostitutes exclusively,” she said.

  “They are the perfect victims.”

  She studied the thick front door and then tested the handle herself with a twist. It was definitely locked. “I could break the glass.”

  “I wish. We don’t even know we have the right guy. And whatever you find in there won’t be admissible in court.”

  She peered again through the small gap between the curtain and the edge of the window. The back of her neck tightened just as it had when the Key Killer had approached her.

  “Maybe there’s a back door that’s unlocked,” she said.

  “We still don’t have a warrant.”

  She turned from the window and went down the front steps. He followed, and the two walked through the tall grass around to the back side of the house. All the windows were covered in thick curtains, and it was impossible to get a good look inside.

  Melina faced away from the house, staring at the small open field behind the structure. “Those two women I was looking for have still not been found.”

  “This killer discarded the bodies of his other victims. It doesn’t make sense he would bury a victim on the property.”

  She stared at the dense line of woods. “He’s getting older,” she said. “There are more surveillance cameras in the world. It’s harder to get away with murder. And I stuck him good.”

  She walked toward the woods, not really sure what she was searching for. “He dumped his former victims in the woods. If I were older and wiser, I’d definitely stick close to home. He has perfectly good woods near this house.”

  Ramsey nodded. “What better way to relive the fantasy of killing a woman than to step out on your porch and stare into the woods where she’s buried. He’s far from any nosy neighbors here.”

  Several more steps and she caught the first whiff of death’s rancid scent. It had been hot the last two weeks, so any creature or human left out here would decompose quickly.

  “Do you smell it?” she asked.

  “I certainly do,” he said.

  Both drew their weapons and moved closer to the tree line. Melina was ten feet away when the stench hit her full in the face. She coughed, raised her hand to her mouth.

  “There it is,” he said. “Do you see it?”

  She narrowed her gaze and searched the underbrush until she caught sight of an outline of decomposed remains.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Thursday, August 27, 4:30 p.m.

  Search warrant in hand, Ramsey and Melina watched as a locksmith opened the front door to Mecum’s house. A faint sense of excitement churned in Ramsey. This was the closest he had come to this killer, and the idea of catching him now was painfully tantalizing.

  The medical examiner had arrived, along with a half dozen marked police vehicles. Yellow crime scene tape had been strung and a tent and multiple tables erected to create a mobile workstation. Agent Jackson was on scene overseeing the search of the woods for more bodies and any trace of Mecum.

  The lock turned and the first uniformed cop pushed open the door. That officer and two others entered the house and searched it. They came out ten minutes later. “All yours,” the officer said.

  Latex tightened against Ramsey’s skin as he flexed his fingers. He did not reach for the light switch but waited as the technician dusted for prints. As much as he wanted to search the house, he did not want to destroy vital forensic evidence that would help them nail this guy.

  When the scene was all clear, the two walked through the first floor into an outdated kitchen that looked out over a den and a tall fireplace.

  She ran her finger over the counter, collecting a thick coating of dust. She opened the refrigerator, which released a stale, musty smell from no use. The freezer was the same.

  The two made a methodical search of the first and second floors, but each room was like the last. Dusty and empty.

  “I bet he’s busy outfitting his new van,” she said. “He wants it just right before he hunts again.”

  “A guy like him might have multiple locations,” he cautioned. “There’s no sign that he brought anyone inside, so perhaps this was strictly a dump site.”

  “He’s definitely not been inside for a while,” she said.

  Ramsey considered setting up a perimeter on the property and waiting for Mecum’s return. It would only be a matter of time before he came back. But as much as Ramsey wanted to stay in Nashville and see this case to the end, he had a finite amount of time remaining before he had to return to Washington.

  As if sensing his thoughts, Melina asked, “How much longer are you going to be in Nashville?”

  “A few more days at most. I’ve got to get back.”

  “Hopefully you’ll be around for the takedown. It would be a shame to miss the party,” she said.

  “It’s been a while since I was involved in an arrest.” Again, he flexed his fingers as adrenaline rushed through his body. God, he missed this part of the job.

  “I should go back out on the street near the Mission,” Melina said. “You said this killer circled back on one of his victims.”

  “No way.”

  “If he doesn’t know the cops have found this place, he soon will. If we don’t catch him now, he’ll take his money and fly away.”

  His phone chimed with a text. “It’s from Andy. She has the DMV picture of Mecum.”

  She inspected the picture, studying it closely. Mecum was attractive. He had dark hair salted with enough gray to make him look distinguished. His face was long, lean, and tanned. He had a patrician nose and stark brown eyes that were so dark they reminded her of a great white shark’s lifeless gaze. “It’s impossible to tell. My guy was wearing a wig and it was dark.”

  “How did he move? Did he move like a sixty-two-year-old man?”

  “He was strong as hell. No couch potato could have pulled it off.”

  “We need a solid identification on this guy.”

  “Is that a yes or a no to putting me on the street? I’d do it myself, but I’m on thin ice with the boss.”

  “And rightly so.” They stepped outside onto the back porch, and he surveyed the property. The forensic team had set up several tents and worktables. They got into the car, and he nosed it down the driveway. Gravel crunched under the tires, and she found herself drawn back to the night she had been left on the side of the road not too far from here.

  “I can show this picture around the Bottom,” she said. “One of the girls might have seen him out of disguise. I’ll also ask Sarah.”

  “It’s a start. And our only play.”

  “A john with a limp is also memorable.”

  It was possible but likely a long shot. Only a fool would return to old hunting grounds knowing the cops were canvassi
ng the area. “Okay.”

  Melina rolled her shoulders as her gaze skimmed the wooded countryside. “While we’re out here, there’s a diner I’d like you to see.”

  A grin tugged at his lips. “But you just ate.”

  She shrugged, unapologetic. “It’s true that I’m always hungry. But that’s not the reason I want to see this diner. When I was a child, whoever called the police and reported I was on that roadside did it from that diner. Seems plausible that Sonny may have been back to it.”

  He understood the reasoning behind the visit, but he wanted to hear her thoughts. “Explain.”

  “Bonnie commented that Sonny was sentimental. Couldn’t let go of the past. Maybe that’s where he goes to mourn the sister he could not save. Like you said, killers are creatures of habit.”

  Melina and Ramsey arrived at the diner just before the dinner crowd would be coming through. She led the way, reaching for the diner’s door seconds before Ramsey.

  Growing up as the only child of Detective Hank Shepard, she was basically the son he never had. Her mother had tried to expose their daughter to more ladylike pursuits, but Melina had always gravitated toward hikes in the woods and the garage, where her dad would tinker on his 1974 Cutlass Supreme.

  Which was now why she was uncomfortable having a man holding a door or allowing her to walk ahead first. With Ramsey she sensed the moves were automatic. He had been so steeped in old Virginia culture that it was now a part of his DNA.

  Ramsey did not seem to mind when she took the lead and followed her and the hostess to a booth in the corner. She slid into the booth as he did, and each reached for a menu. She glanced around and searched for the public pay phone that an unknown caller had used twenty-eight years ago to save her life. There was no sign of it. She had seen pictures of it on the wall by the counter when she had pulled the police report detailing her rescue.

  “Have you ever been here before?” Ramsey asked.

  “I come about once a year. I always speak to the owner, Pop. He said he was here the night the police received the call about me.”

  “Does he remember who made the call?”

  “No.”

  The waitress arrived at their table. Each accepted a cup of coffee. He ordered the omelet. She asked for a Big Boy burger with fries. Then she asked for extra fries. The waitress took one look at her slim figure and joked, “There is no God,” and turned to place the order.