by P. D. Martin
“So, what about the other cases? Maybe there’s something there. Something we’ve missed so far,” I say.
“Well, the others were planned,” Darren says. “The perp must have stalked the victims. His third victim, Mary Coles, was found dumped in the lake. It looked like she may have hitched a ride with him. She was a young waitress and often finished up work late, after the buses had stopped running. Sometimes she’d get a ride home from other staff, sometimes she’d walk, and sometimes she’d hitch. But no one saw her get into a car that night.”
“He probably followed her while she was walking and made sure no one was in sight,” I say. “Who’d she live with?”
Darren responds. “Her mother. It was just the two of them.”
“Was there any sign of breaking and entering or that someone had been in the home?”
“She wasn’t nabbed from home,” Watson says.
“I know, but we think our guy has a way of getting in with a lock-picking set or lock-picking gun. He actually visits his victims’ homes as part of the stalking process.”
I feel the weight of the quilt from the dream last night and shiver. It felt so real. It’s hard to believe it was only last night. It seems like weeks ago. “So any sign of entry at the victims’ homes?”
“Not that I know of. But we didn’t check, either,” Watson says.
“Was anyone you spoke to a locksmith?” I ask. “Or become a locksmith later on?”
Both Carter and Watson are silent. After a couple of minutes Watson starts shuffling the papers Darren has brought.
“George Daly. His father was a locksmith,” Watson says, fingering the transcript of that interview. He’s enjoying being back on a case.
“Did he fit the profile?”
“In some areas, yes,” Watson says. “But not in others.”
“Do you know where he lives now?”
“No. He’s not one of the ones I tracked,” Watson says.
“Maybe you’ve got something for O’Donnell after all,” Darren says, looking at the clock in the diner.
If George Daly was a student, or even lived in Michigan from 1997 to 2000… Hang on, Sam.
CHAPTER 16
Watson and Darren come back to my motel. I want O’Donnell to hear this firsthand and he might have questions for them.
I check in at the front desk, then hurry to my room. I dump my overnight bag on the spare bed and take out the Arizona files. I dial O’Donnell’s cell phone. “Okay, go ahead, Anderson.” O’Donnell sounds tired—I probably woke him. It is midnight in D.C. but, hey, he asked me to call. And even if he didn’t I still would have. Sam’s waiting for me, waiting for us to save her from that bastard. Holding off till morning could cost Sam her life. It isn’t an option.
“I’ve got Detectives Watson and Carter here from Tucson Homicide. We may have a lead on the lock-picking angle. One of the men who was interviewed during the Sally-Anne Raymond case had a locksmith father.”
“Really?” O’Donnell sounds wide awake now. “Any idea of his whereabouts?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Watson says.
“Tell me what you know,” O’Donnell says.
We all huddle around the phone, with Watson sitting on one of the chairs and Darren standing. Watson leans back in his chair and nods at Darren. Darren starts. “We interviewed George Daly several times. He was never really a suspect because as far as we could make out he didn’t even know Sally-Anne. We interviewed him because a couple of his friends hung out with a couple of her friends, and we thought maybe they’d crossed paths at some stage. But he denied having ever met her, and his friends corroborated this.”
“How old was he at the time?”
Watson leans forward, closer to the phone. “He was twenty-two and working as a sales assistant in a men’s clothing store.”
“No idea if he went on to college?”
Darren paces a little while Watson takes the lead. “I just called an old friend of his. Turns out he was saving to study, but the friend can’t remember what or where. His family moved out of town about a year after Sally-Anne’s death and he lost contact with Daly.”
“Okay. We’ll track him down from this end. So it’s George Daly, twenty-two in 1995. What’s his father’s name?”
“Um.” Darren grabs the file and scans the pages. “Here it is. It’s George too. His father is George John Daly and our guy is George Andrew Daly.”
“Thanks, Detectives, that’s a big help,” O’Donnell says.
I pick up the phone, taking it off speaker. “You’re off speakerphone now.”
“I presume you didn’t tell them about the FBI’s stake in this case, Anderson,” O’Donnell says.
“Of course not.”
Watson stands up and walks over to the door. Darren follows suit and they talk in hushed tones. I can’t make out what they’re saying.
“Okay, good work. I’m going to get our guys working on the name right away. I’ll also phone around and tell the rest of the team the news. I’m sure they’ll all want to know.”
“I’ll see if I can get a flight out tonight.”
“I’d rather you stay put until tomorrow. Let’s see how this lead pans out.”
“I’d be better back there. In D.C.”
He sighs. “I want someone in Arizona, Anderson. You fit the bill.”
I can tell there’s no point arguing. “Okay,” I say. But all I can think about is getting back to D.C. and Sam.
“Hopefully by tomorrow we’ll have some hard evidence on George Daly. Then you can fly back.”
I don’t respond.
O’Donnell fills the silence. “Besides, the locksmith father could just be a coincidence.”
God, I hope not. Time is running out. I know it’s not a strong lead, yet, but it’s all I’ve got. All Sam’s got.
I change the subject. “Anything else your end? How’d it go with those checks?”
“Watson and Carter have both been stationed in Tucson, so they’re clear. We haven’t checked flights, but these weren’t vacation killings.”
“No, doesn’t fit the killer’s pattern or profile,” I say.
“I’ll keep most of the team on the students but I’ll get someone on Daly right away. If we can place him in all cities or most cities, we’ll bring him in for questioning. We’ll look over the other case files with him in mind.”
“Also, the perp might come back to get that necklace from Sam’s place. Have you got someone watching it?”
“I think Couples kept a team on duty, but I’ll check.”
“Great,” I say.
“The Post story will be in tomorrow’s edition, but with any luck we won’t need it.”
“Things are looking up.” I pause. “I’d better go.”
“Okay, Anderson. I’ll keep you informed…and don’t worry. If Daly’s our man, we’ll get Sam.”
“Thanks.”
I flop into one of the armchairs and Darren and Watson come away from the door.
“I’m not convinced George is our guy. I remember interviewing him and he seemed kinda sweet to me,” Darren says.
“So did Bundy,” I fire back.
I have to believe the killer is within our grasp. If it’s Daly, we’ll get to Sam in time. I think back to the visions I’ve had about the D.C. Slasher—he’s tall and muscular with brown hair.
“What does Daly look like?”
Watson scratches his stubble. “Tall and skinny.”
Tall, yes. Skinny? Daly could have been working out. “What color hair?” I bite my lip.
Watson and Darren exchange looks.
“It was dark,” Darren says.
“Yeah, black, I think,” Watson adds.
They could be wrong. My visions could be wrong. Please let it be Daly.
Watson moves toward the door. “Well, I better get home.”
“Oh, ah, yeah, me too,” Darren says and I notice the way he’s looking at me. He doesn’t want to leave.
�
��Thanks, guys. I’ve got quite a bit of work to finish off anyway,” I say quickly, not wanting to be in an awkward position with Darren.
“So, do you need a lift to the other murder sites tomorrow?” Darren asks.
“Depends what happens with Daly tonight. I might be heading back to D.C.”
Darren nods.
“If not, I will check out the other crime scenes,” I say.
“I can swing by and pick you up, if you like.”
“That’d be good. If it’s not a problem with your other cases.”
“Look, I’m the retired one, why don’t I take you?” Watson says, although somewhat begrudgingly.
I shrug.
“It’s settled then,” Watson says. “Nine okay?”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to be any trouble. I mean, I’ve got all the files and I can rent a car.”
“It’ll give me something to do.”
“Thanks. Nine sounds good. I’ll call you by eight if I’m heading back to D.C.”
Watson nods in response, scribbles down his cell number, then leaves.
“Well, um, I guess I’ll catch up with you before you go,” Darren says, lingering at the door. He smiles. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
He keeps smiling and walks out the door.
I sigh. I’m not really sure why I’m so attracted to Darren. I don’t know him, not like I know Marco, but there’s some connection there. I think of Sam. I know exactly what she’d do if she were here—she’d get up and do a perfect, gutsy rendition of “It’s Raining Men.” Hopefully I’ll be cheering her up with this story in a couple of days. But for now I can’t afford to think about Josh or Darren. It’s Sam who needs my attention.
God, I wish she were here. I let slow, silent tears flow down my cheeks. Finally I pull myself together. Tears aren’t going to help Sam.
I empty the contents of the files onto the desk. I hope we’re closing in on the killer. That Daly’s our man. But I can’t ignore the fact that some things don’t ring true with Daly. Besides, I can’t rest until Sam’s in front of me and I give her a big hug.
There’s also something about the knife wounds on Jean’s leg that still bothers me. Why did I see the Triquetra symbol on her leg if it’s not there? And if it’s the murderer’s signature, why isn’t it on all the victims?
I start with the blowup of her thigh, and the knife wounds on the other D.C. victims. Again I search carefully for the tattoo on all the bodies. Nothing. Next I look at the other crime-scene photos that came in from Arizona, Michigan, Florida and Chicago. I start off with the Michigan photos. The first two Michigan victims have got crude tattoos of Sally-Anne’s pendant, just like O’Donnell said. Obviously it was carved into their flesh by the killer. The third and fourth Michigan victims both have knife wounds that replicate half of the symbol, almost as if the killer was interrupted. That leaves the last two Michigan girls, the one in Florida, two Chicago victims and the three in D.C. I wonder…
I draw the symbol from the pendant, much bigger than the photo we’ve got. Then I look at the thighs of each of the eight, apparently unbranded victims, turning the photos around to see all angles.
“Son of a bitch!” I stand up.
Each of the knife markings on the victims makes up part of the symbol. Each victim has got such a small part of the symbol carved into her that it’s barely discernible. I sit down and look again, making sure it’s not a coincidence. To double-check I cut up the photos, taking out only the section of the symbol. On the bed I piece the bits of the eight different photos together and in front of me is about three-quarters of the pendant.
“Son of a bitch,” I repeat. It’s his signature all right.
My phone rings. I grab it from the front pocket of my briefcase. “Agent Anderson.”
“Hi, Soph. It’s Josh. How are you?”
“Josh, you won’t believe this.” I pace around the room. “The killer’s stab wounds partially form that Celtic symbol from Sally-Anne’s pendant!”
“What?”
“Have you got the files there?”
“Hang on a sec.” I hear him moving to another part of his house. He keeps talking. “Hey, congrats on George Daly. A suspect at last.”
“I just hope he’s the one.”
“Okay, I’ve got the files,” Josh says.
I move back to my bed, staring at the collage of photos. “Get out the photos of the victims’ thighs and the photo of the pendant we found at Sam’s. Victims five and six in Michigan have got the bottom left-hand portion of the symbol. Now, if you turn the photos of the Chicago and Florida victims upside down, you’ll see they fit together to form the top section of the symbol. Jean from D.C. has got the very center of the symbol, where the three pieces intersect.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Now turn the photos of Teresa and Susan ninety degrees to the right and you’ll see they’ve got part of the bottom right-hand section of the symbol.”
“God, you’re right. No one noticed this.”
“Neither did I until just now. They’re such small sections. It’s all coming together.” I go over to the bar fridge and get out an orange juice. “Hey, O’Donnell said you were happy with the Post article.”
“Yeah, it’s come up well.”
I imagine seeing Sam again. God, I can’t wait, but the thought of what’s happened to her disgusts and angers me.
“Poor Sam. I can’t bear to imagine the state she’ll be in.”
“Let’s get her home safe, Sophie, before you start worrying about her mental health.”
“Yeah.” I pause and sit down on the bed. “So what are you guys doing on George Daly?”
“Tax records, college records, payroll and credit cards. It shouldn’t take us long to get the evidence together if it’s there. And we’ll have a current address soon. I’ll call you with any news.”
“Do you think it will be tonight?”
“I’d say so. We’re all on call and staying close. I don’t think we’ll be getting any sleep.”
“Call me. No matter what time. I wish I was there.”
“I wish you were here too,” he says slowly.
“Thanks,” I say, picking up his double meaning and feeling slightly guilty that I’m also attracted to Darren. “You working at the moment?”
“Yeah, looking over the college lists. We’re getting a database together to run an electronic cross-reference. We’re almost there.”
“What about the FBI applicants and police lists?” I lie down on the bed but leave my legs hanging over the edge. My feet just touch the floor.
“Flynn, Jones and Krip are working on those.”
“I hope O’Donnell’s got enough people.”
“Daly’s really only a computer search for the moment. Hopefully there aren’t too many George Dalys. With any luck we’ll have an address within the hour.”
“Maybe I should get on a flight now.”
“Would you get a flight out at this time of night?”
“No, probably not. O’Donnell wants me to stay put anyway.”
“Don’t worry, Soph. We can handle it at this end. You’ve done the hard work and got the name, let us do the rest. Plus, we’ve got definite links between all the victims now. The pendant thing plus the body positioning should stand up in court. So we only have to get a case against this guy for one of the murders.”
“Yeah, I thought about that today, when I was with the Raymonds. I hadn’t given it much thought before that.”
“Naturally. You’re worried about Sam.”
“God, I hope she’s okay.” I sit up again. She might never be okay. How can anyone really deal with being abducted, raped and tortured by a serial killer?
“We’ll help her through this, Soph. And so will the FBI. Amanda Rosen is good.”
“Yeah, she’s damn good,” I say.
“She’ll be there for Sam. We all will be.”
I lie back on the bed again. There’s a pause and I
wonder what Josh is thinking. I’d love to have him next to me right now.
“Listen, I’m going to try to get some sleep before the call comes in,” Josh says.
“Sure. Don’t forget…”
“I know. Call you.”
“Thanks, Josh.”
We say our good-nights and hang up. I feel useless now, hanging around in Tucson when Sam’s somewhere in D.C. and the bust is about to go down. I spend the next hour looking through the case files on the motel bed, before falling asleep.
I wake up with a start when the phone rings.
“Hello,” I say, groggy and shaken by another nightmare I can’t remember.
“It’s me. Josh. We’ve got something on Daly.”
“Yes?”
“He studied in Michigan.”
I sit up and swing my feet off the bed and onto the floor. “That’s fantastic news. From 1997 to 2000?”
“The dates are a year off. He was there from 1998 to 2001. It’s still possible though.”
“So we’ve got him in Arizona and Michigan. That’s two.”
“Three. We’ve got a current address on him and it’s here in D.C. We’re going to bring him in for questioning.”
“What if Sam’s hidden on the premises? Have you got a search warrant?”
A pause. “No.”
“Shit!”
“We need more for a warrant.”
“But what about Sam?”
“If Daly knows anything, I’ll get it out of him.” There’s a steeliness in Marco’s voice that surprises me. But I can’t imagine he’ll break any rules with Daly, even for Sam.
I sigh. “Okay.”
“I’ll call you just before I go in. I can keep the line open so you can hear what’s going on.”
“Thanks, Josh. I couldn’t bear to sit here and not know.”
“Yeah, I figured as much. I’ll call you back.”
I wait impatiently, unsure what to do with myself. I get up and pace the room, glaring at my watch every few seconds. Hang on, Sam.
I decide to try to see what’s happening to Sam, like I did earlier today. I sit on the edge of my bed and push the thoughts away. I take deep breaths and with each breath try to relax. But it’s no use; I’m too wound up to clear my mind. I keep thinking about George Daly, and about Sam lying on a gurney somewhere.
