by L A Dobbs
“Did you find anything interesting so far?” Sam asked.
Wyatt shook his head. “They’re mostly cryptic and vague references, and most of them are emails. So there’s very few physical return addresses to follow up on. A couple of them went to post office boxes so I’m trying to get the records of who the owners were. One went to a real address, but that guy died six years ago so he’s probably not our guy.”
Jo checked her phone for the millionth time. No text from Bridget. Worry about her sister battled with her desire to get a new lead. Even if Bridget had seen the boyfriend, that had been five years ago and memories got fuzzy. Then there was the question of her drug history. Not only would she quickly be discredited in court, but could they really trust her memory to be accurate?
“Anything from your sister?” The concern on Sam’s face showed that he could sense her worry.
Jo gave him a wan smile. “No.”
“It would be helpful if she could describe the boyfriend, but that’s not critical. Her testimony would likely be questioned, given her history. So it’s more important that she get better than we pester her to help on the case,” Sam said.
“Thank you.” Jo knew that Sam’s worry was sincere, and it warmed her heart.
The lobby door opened, and they heard Bev’s voice a few seconds before she walked around the post office boxes and into the squad room. It took Jo a second to recognize her because she wasn’t wearing her sheriff uniform. Tonight she had on a T-shirt, jean jacket, and jeans. Jo bit back a smile. She’d never pictured that Bev had anything in her wardrobe other than those brown and tan uniforms. She looked like she was ready for a night out at Holy Spirits. Jo mentally added her to her list of invitees.
“You folks are working late. Did you get a lead?” Bev asked.
“We wish. We’re just reviewing what we have so far,” Sam said. “We could use a good lead, if you have one.”
“Unfortunately I don’t.” Bev leaned her hip on one of the desks. “Turns out those meth people were smart. No fingerprints in the kitchen. The main house had a variety of them, but nothing in AFIS, so we can’t track down who they belong to.” Bev rattled off the details with her usual efficiency.
“So the prints are probably from people other than those running the meth lab?” Reese asked. “Unless, of course, the people running it had never been arrested.”
Bev nodded. “Possibly the drug addicts that hung out there. It’s also possible the meth lab was in operation at a different time than when the vagrants squatted there. They may not even be related.”
“Looks like we have a lot of things that may or may not be related,” Sam said.
Bev nodded, “And so far very few solid leads.”
“Anyone heard from Holden? He might have some new information,” Jo said hopefully.
Bev rolled her eyes, “Yeah, I heard from him. He doesn’t have anything. You know, sometimes I think those feds just butt in when they don’t have anything of their own to go on. Then they take the credit for all of our work.”
Jo smiled. She knew there was no love lost between Bev and Holden Joyce. In fact, she guessed he’d done exactly that to her in the past, but now that Holden seemed to be cooperating she hoped things would be different.
Sam had walked over to the cork board and was staring at the photos again. Jo knew his process was to mull over the physical clues. She was more about the psychology of suspects, but in this case there wasn’t much psychology to analyze. She was going to rely mostly on Sam.
“There’s got to be something in these photos that we can use,” Sam glanced at his phone. “It’s past five. Maybe we should all head home. I don’t know about you guys, but I could use a fresh night’s sleep. Maybe something will pop out at me tomorrow. Sooner or later, something’s got to break.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sam spent a restless night, his brain working overtime to make sense of the clues. He was worried about Thorne’s threat, not so much for himself, but for Mick. He didn’t want his friend to be pulled into some trumped-up investigation with fake evidence, but there was nothing he could do about that right now. He certainly wasn’t going to throw the investigation over it. Once Thorne was gone, that threat would be gone too, so the sooner they could nail Thorne on at least one of these cases the better.
But something was bothering him, niggling away at the back of his brain like an itch that no amount of scratching would satisfy. There was also the fact that only two girls had been identified. Two families at least had closure, but one family was still wondering, and Sam desperately wanted to be able to stop that agonizing feeling of not knowing for them. Sam thought about his twin daughters, Hayley and Marla. He couldn’t imagine what it would feel like if one of them disappeared from his life.
He got to the station about an hour early, surprised to find Wyatt already there. He stopped at Wyatt’s desk before heading to the sanctuary of his office. “How’s it going?”
Wyatt looked up from the computer, his eyes blurry. Had the guy been at this all night? “Tedious, but I’m checking everything. I’m getting into the IP layer now to see where these emails came from, and I have a special program that’s going to ferret out any consistencies. It’s a long shot, but...”
Sam nodded. In his limited knowledge of computers, he knew the IP layer was the technical way computers communicated with each other. Luckily, he didn’t have to know any more than that. Wyatt was an expert, and that was good enough for him.
“Woof!”
“Hiss!”
Major darted out of Sam’s office and shot under Kevin’s desk.
Wyatt’s brows crept up. “Looks like the morning is off to a great start with those two.”
Sam left Wyatt to his task. In his office he found Lucy lying in a puddle of sunlight below the windows, her eye on the door, probably watching to make sure Major didn’t try to intrude into her territory again. Sam went over and patted the top of her head. “You showed him, huh?”
Lucy’s tail swished on the floor in agreement.
Sam got busy staring at the photos on his cork board again. Was his desperation to arrest Thorne messing with his head? So far, he’d spent all this time trying to figure out how to get evidence against Thorne in both cases, but what if the two cases were unrelated?
He should spend some time thinking about that, but he had no other suspects. He felt strongly that Thorne at least had something to do with the meth lab. The coincidences were just too much. But the murders? Maybe he had been stretching it. Thoughts of his girls surfaced again. He owed it to the families to make sure he approached this case the right way, without prejudice, so that they could catch the killer. He still remembered Menda’s parting words about how the killer must be itching to start up again.
“Deep in thought, huh?”
Harry Woolston stood in Sam’s doorway, dressed in white shorts, a white shirt and terrycloth bands on his wrists and forehead.
Sam was too busy taking in Harry’s outfit to formulate words.
“I know that look,” Harry said. “That’s when you’re stuck on the case. Maybe you need to call me in?”
“I don’t know, Harry. Looks like you’re kind of busy.”
Harry ignored his remark. “What’s the problem? You may need to think outside the lines. That’s what I always had to do.”
“Yeah. I can see with that outfit.” Sam gestured up and down Harry’s body.
Harry rolled his eyes. “Tennis. The wife has me trying out all these new things.” Harry sighed. “I’d rather be doing detective work. Don’t you need a consultant? I have lots of experience.”
“Yeah. Maybe we could use you to go undercover at the country club,” Sam joked.
“Very funny. Anyway, let me tell you about a similar case I had back in my day...”
As Harry droned on about his case, Sam let his mind wander. There had to be a clue he was missing, and he had to figure it out fast because the more time that went by the better the chan
ce the killer would strike again.
Wyatt looked up from his computer only long enough to see Harry Woolston disappear into Sam’s office. He liked the old guy’s tenacity. It reminded him of his grandfather. They had been close when Wyatt was little, but Wyatt didn’t have many memories of him because circumstances had forced him and his mother to leave town when he was barely ten. He’d never seen his grandfather again, but that was probably for the best.
He dragged his attention back to the computer, not wanting to dredge up painful memories. He really hoped he could help with the case. It would make him feel as if he were atoning. How much atonement he would need, he had no idea. Would he ever feel that he’d set things right? At least he was starting to like Sam and Jo. They were honest, and he really felt they wanted to work for justice, just like him.
But what was that comment Thorne had made when they’d been at the construction site? Clearly, there was something going on between him and Sam. Wyatt couldn’t imagine what it was. He’d come across people like Thorne before. The guy was bad news. So, if he was threatening to blackmail Sam with something, that only moved Sam higher in Wyatt’s estimation.
Wyatt zoned out. Watching the green numbers scroll on his screen, he let the program he’d written do the work. When he and his mother had broken off contact with the family, Wyatt had been lonely. He turned to video games and computers. He’d became somewhat of an expert, and that expertise was coming in handy right now. Last night, he’d written a program to look for consistencies in the correspondence sent to Joseph Menda.
He knew from reading the letters that the correspondents didn’t come right out and talk about killing. They were smart enough to know that police read each word. Instead, the real meanings were cleverly disguised behind code words. Some talked about his clever “art.” Others about his masterful “accomplishments.” One guy even used landscaping jargon that was clearly euphemisms for killing. It was crazy the different ways they could come up with to hide what they were really trying to say.
They weren’t all serial killers, of course. Most of them were fantasizing about killing and would never escalate to the real thing. Of course, most of the letters and emails weren’t signed or used nicknames.
Wyatt’s program was written to key off certain phrases that he’d determined would signal someone who was serious, as well as ferret out letters that appeared to be from the same person and where at least one had been sent fairly recently. Wyatt figured that if the killer was trying to impress Menda, he’d have written him a few times, and if he was still alive he might have sent one not that long ago.
His eyes shifted from the screen to Major, who was skulking around the perimeter of the room, stopping to sniff here and there every once in a while, looking up at him as if they had some sort of special bond. Maybe they did. They were both new to the station, and both feeling their way out, trying to find acceptance, figuring out where they belonged.
Ding!
His attention jerked back to the screen. The computer had found commonalities in a five-year-old email with one that had been sent three weeks ago. The emails were unsigned and sent from different places, but they had to be from the same person. Both referred to baking, of all things, and Wyatt’s blood chilled as he saw that the latest one referred to an irresistible craving to bake his favorite pie again soon.
He got to work typing furiously, trying to find the source of the email. He was working so hard he didn’t notice that Jo had come in until she was standing right beside his desk looking down at the screen, a furrow between her gray eyes. “Did you find something?”
Wyatt looked up at her, excitement building in his veins. “I did. I found a common thread between some old emails and some new ones. I think this could be our guy, and even better”——he pointed to the screen—“I have an IP address, and I’ve traced it to a cyber café near here.”
Jo leaned in even closer. “Where?”
“Black Cat Café. On Grove Street.”
Jo’s frown deepened. “Grove Street is right near the Summers’ mansion. Thorne’s in-laws.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Black Cat Café was about ten minutes away in a little area of shops that had sprung up on a well-traveled road. It wasn’t hard to spot, given that it had an oversized sign that depicted a giant black cat lounging along the top. The cat reminded Jo of Major, and she half expected the place to have a resident gang of cats inside. She was disappointed to discover otherwise.
The interior was what she would have described as urban trendy, a little progressive for their rural area. It was steeped in the earthy smell of coffee and buzzing with activity. People sat around in comfy micro suede purple and blue chairs, sipping steaming cappuccinos. The foam, no doubt, artistically swirled in the image of a cat. Others nibbled scones and picked cinnamon-topped pieces of coffee cake at round bistro tables.
Near the windows in the corner, a long bar-height table held three computer stations. A piece of paper hung above with instructions on how to access the Internet. While the rest of the café was uber modern, this part was like a throwback to pre-wi-fi days when it was a big draw for a café to offer computers you could use to get online. Jo hardly ever saw that anywhere anymore now that everyone had their own laptops and wi-fi was everywhere. Maybe the Internet was spotty here.
They headed to the register, passing a case loaded with fancy pastries. Sam flashed a piece of paper with a photo of Thorne at the cashier, a twenty-something with a long, blond braid pulled over one shoulder. “Does this guy come in?”
She squinted at the photo, then looked back at Sam. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”
“Maybe he uses the computers?” Sam gestured toward the computers in the corner.
The girl looked at the photo again and frowned. “Hardly anyone uses those. Gary, the owner, only has them for those of us less fortunate. He likes to help people who are not as privileged as we are,” she said proudly.
“So you can’t say whether this guy comes in or not?” Sam asked.
“I can’t say for sure.” She glanced around the room. “It’s so busy in here. Everyone kind of blends in unless they’re a regular. This guy is not a regular, but I only work mornings.”
“Is there someone else here we could talk to? Maybe someone else saw him.” Sam said.
“Sure.” She glanced at another twenty-something, this one a tall guy with shaggy hair. “Hey, Matt. This guy has a question. Wants to know if you recognize a customer.”
Matt shambled over and looked at the photo, then shook his head. “Did this guy do something?”
“No,” Sam said, “We’re just trying to locate him.”
Matt looked as if he didn’t quite believe Sam, but he shrugged and said, “I don’t remember seeing him. He might have come in when I wasn’t working.”
“He would have been using the computers over there.” Sam jerked his head toward the computers. “Do those get much use?”
“A few times a week, sometimes more. Depends. It’s free so people who can’t afford the Internet or a computer come in to use them when they want to get online.”
Or, if they don’t want their online activities tracked, Jo thought.
“And are you here all the time?” Sam asked.
Matt shook his head. “I work most days in the summer, but only weekends once college starts.”
“Can I get a list of the other employees?” Sam asked.
A worried look passed over Matt’s face, and he glanced at the girl with the braid. “I’m not sure. Maybe you should talk to our boss, Gary.” He opened a drawer and reached in and pulled out a business card, which he handed to Sam.
“Thanks.” Sam turned away from the counter, disappointment evident on his face. “When was that last email sent?”
“Two weeks ago,” Wyatt said.
“Maybe we need to set up surveillance outside the café.” Sam said. “I wonder if Bev Hatch has anyone she could spare. If Thorne comes back in and we c
an get a photo of him using the computer, then match that with the time the email was sent, it could go a long way to improving our case.”
“And if he’s starting up again. As the last email might indicate, he probably will come in to brag some more,” Wyatt said.
The door opened, and Beryl Thorne walked in, stopping short when she saw them standing there. The photo of Thorne crinkled as Sam shoved it in his pocket.
“Chief Mason.” Her curious gaze darted from Sam to Jo, and then to Wyatt. Then a frown formed between her brows. “What brings you here?”
“Just following a lead,” Sam said.
Beryl looked around the room and leaned in, lowering her voice. “You mean on what you found in the woods?” Her voice held a note of incredulity, as if she couldn’t figure out what the café could have to do with skeletal remains.
Normally Sam would never reveal that he was following a lead. He didn’t like to give out too much information, but Jo knew he was trying to make Beryl nervous, get her uncomfortable enough to give them some evidence against her husband. If she knew that Thorne came here to use the computers, the fact that the police were snooping around might be the very thing that finally caused her to realize that her suspicions about her husband really did have merit.
“Here?” She glanced around the café.
“Not anyone in here right now,” Sam said. “What are you doing here?”
Her gaze darted to the pastry case. “Oh, I’m on my way to visit my brother. He doesn’t get out very much these days, and he loves the cream horns here, so I always bring him some.”
“Does your family come here often?” Sam asked.
The crease between her brows deepened. “No. I mean, we used to, but... Why do you ask? I thought you said Mervale wasn’t connected to anything you found.”
“Mervale isn’t,” Sam said. The slight emphasis he put on the word “Mervale” was barely noticeable, but if Beryl was already thinking her husband might be involved, it could be a subtle hint.
