by Lisa Gardner
“What else do you know of the UNSUB?” Quincy again.
“Well, having seen him for the first time tonight … Mid thirties.”
“Seasoned. Capable of moving about, taking his time, stalking his target.”
“To judge by the tape, I’d say Veronica Jones was not his first victim. He’s had time to refine his methods. Physically, he’s white, five nine or five ten, maybe hundred and seventy pounds. Not big, but lean, wiry. And outdoorsy—hiking boots, jeans, the SUV.”
“Hunter?”
“In this state, a strong possibility.”
“Loner.”
“Interestingly enough, we don’t think so. The GBI special agent involved has received two envelopes on the windshield of his car. Both contained driver’s licenses from missing hookers. Given that no note or further means of communication were attempted, Sal thinks the packages may have come from someone close to the killer, and not from the killer himself.”
Quincy arched a brow, considering the matter. “Fair enough. Most killers, if they’re going to make contact, will engage in some petty taunting while they’re at it.”
“Exactly. Unfortunately, the envelopes yielded no physical evidence. So we still need to identify and track the killer on our own. Once we know who he is, however, we may be able to identify a spouse or family member who can be of some help to us.”
“Socioeconomics?” Quincy moved along.
“Can’t figure him out. Talks white trash, but can also sound very crisp when he wants. And the SUV is nice—a Limited Edition Toyota FourRunner. Clothes as well; he looks casual with the jeans, the flannel shirt, but they’re nice jeans, nice flannel. Maybe once a redneck, but now a yuppie.”
“He’s upwardly mobile. Likes material possessions,” Rainie filled in.
“I think so.”
“It’s going to come down to the money.” Rainie was looking at Quincy. “A seasoned killer like that, ten-plus victims. The amount of time and energy he’s putting into it now. Preparing the kill kit, trolling for victims, covering his tracks, hiding the bodies. It’s a full-time job, especially if he stalks them for a while, too.”
“Has to,” Quincy spoke up. “If he’s letting Victim A choose Victim B, then he’ll have to do a lot of reconnaissance about Victim B before he can move.”
“So he’s busy,” Rainie continued. “Working hard at this. Which means he’s probably not gainfully employed anymore and having to turn to other means to fund his lifestyle.”
“Such as pimping prostitutes,” Kimberly murmured drily.
“Yes. Or fraud, burglary, drugs. There was this case a while back of a guy who was arrested by the Treasury Department for forging checks. When they went through the man’s storage unit, they found boxes and boxes of photos of bound and gagged women being sexually assaulted. Turned out, the guy was a classic sexual-sadist predator who’d operated for years up and down the eastern seaboard, abducting, raping, and killing women. Forging checks was simply how he covered his costs.
“Have you heard of an organization called NecroSearch International?” Quincy asked.
Kimberly shook her head.
“They’re often referred to as the Pig People. It’s a nonprofit organization, comprised mostly of retired scientists and cops. I’ve been thinking about joining.”
“Oh boy,” Rainie said drolly.
But Kimberly was regarding her father with interest. “What do they do?”
“Find bodies. They’re most famous for burying pigs in order to research techniques for locating clandestine graves. They’re also the ones who located Michele Wallace’s body in Colorado, nearly twenty years after she first disappeared.”
“Michele Wallace?” Kimberly repeated, doing a quick mental search but coming up empty. “Sorry, don’t know the case.”
“That’s because you’re too young. 1974. Wallace was twenty-five years old, living in Gunnison, Colorado. An experienced hiker, she set out for a weekend in Schofield Park with her German shepherd. Returning to her vehicle, she encountered two men having car troubles and offered them a ride. She was never seen alive again.
“According to one of the men, Chuck Matthews, Wallace dropped him off in town, then continued on with his friend, Roy Melanson. Not long after that, Roy Melanson was arrested on an outstanding warrant. In his possessions, the police recovered Wallace’s license, camping equipment, even the pack for her dog. The more they dug into Melanson’s background, the more worried the police became. Melanson was wanted for questioning in three separate rape cases, plus a murder in Texas.
“The police began applying pressure, while launching a massive search for Wallace’s body in Schofield Park. And you know what happened?”
“What?”
“Nothing. Police couldn’t find any evidence of foul play, so they couldn’t put together a case. Melanson claimed Wallace gave him everything as a gift. Who could contradict? Melanson was eventually found guilty on fraud charges for cashing stolen checks, served thirteen years, then walked. Michele Wallace’s mother, on the other hand, committed suicide, leaving behind a note that if her daughter’s remains were ever found, to please bury them next to her.”
“Oh God.”
“In 1979, another hiker in Schofield Park came across a pile of hair in the middle of the hiking trail, still attached to a scalp and fashioned into two perfect braids—just like Michele Wallace wore. The police put the hair in storage and that was that. Until 1990.
“A new detective, Kathy Young, contacted NecroSearch International about the case. NecroSearch brought in a botanist, a forensic anthropologist, an archaeologist, as well as other experts. The botanist studied the plant matter found in the braids and, based on the ratio of the various types of needles and tree bark, determined there were only a few places in the entire park where that same ratio of tree species could be found. The scientists homed in on those areas and after a few days of grueling, methodical sweeps, they found Wallace’s skull. In September 1993, Roy Melanson was finally found guilty of Wallace’s death. And April ’94, Michele Wallace’s remains were finally laid to rest next to her mother’s.”
“Oh jeez,” Kimberly murmured, momentarily looking away. The story had choked her up. She hated that.
“Point is,” her father continued, “bodies matter. If your theory is right, there are at least half a dozen remains hidden somewhere. If traditional policing can’t get the job done, maybe the right expert can.”
She thought about it. “We do have a new lead. A special agent recovered a muddy hiking boot from the UNSUB’s vehicle. I was thinking of contacting one of my buddies from the USGS. See about getting some soil samples analyzed, that sort of thing.”
“Test it for lime!” Quincy stated immediately.
“I know.”
“And get a botanist. Ravines have a tendency to be dense with ferns … Perhaps an entomologist or arachnologist, as well. You mentioned spiders …”
“I know, Dad.” She sounded impatient.
Quincy smiled. “Am I lecturing again?”
She caught herself. “No. You’re offering help, and God knows, with this case, we could use help. It’s just … late.”
“Of course. The baby. You should sleep.”
“Yeah, I should.” But no one was moving from the table. Kimberly sipped more water. Wondered about spiders and soil and where the twists and turns of a case could lead a person. Like the last time she worked with the U.S. Geological Survey team, leaping across rattlesnake-infested rock piles, spelunking into a polluted cave, dashing through a burning swamp. Life when she had been younger, quicker, and responsible for only her own welfare.
“How long are you staying?” she finally thought to ask.
Her father and Rainie exchanged a glance. “We left it open-ended,” Rainie replied lightly. “We’ve never spent much time in Georgia. We thought it might be fun to see the sights.”
Kimberly eyed them skeptically. “And your own cases?”
“The joys of b
eing a self-employed consultant,” her father assured her. “You can always bring the work with you.”
“Because he still can’t leave it at home!” Rainie quipped.
Kimberly nodded. She finished her water. So had Rainie.
“I’ll take you to your room,” she said, picking up everyone’s glasses, herding them down the hall.
Rainie went into the guest room first, in her own discreet way giving Kimberly and her father a moment alone.
Kimberly never knew what to say. Her father excelled at silence, but too often, she merely felt choked by all the words wanting to burst out of her throat. She wanted to ask him if he was happy. She wanted to ask him if a lifetime of dedication to his craft had been worth all that he’d lost along the way.
She wanted to ask him about her mother, and what it had been like when they had been a young couple expecting their first child. She wanted to ask him everything, so she asked him nothing at all.
Her father leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.
For a moment, they both stood like that, eyes closed, foreheads touching.
“Thank you for coming,” Kimberly whispered.
And her father said, “Anytime.”
TWENTY-FOUR
“When food is short and spiderlings are hungry, they may even eat each other.”
FROM Spiders and Their Kin,
BY HERBERT W. AND LORNA R. LEVI, A GOLDEN GUIDE FROM ST. MARTIN’S PRESS, 2002
The boy was back. He returned one bright afternoon, obediently knocking on her back door, so she put him to work splitting firewood. He labored for over an hour, long enough to shed his shirt, revealing his scrawny chest, painfully bony ribs. Afterward, she made him a cheese omelet, with four thick pieces of toast and two glasses of milk. He ate it all, sopping his toast along the plate to get the last of the omelet grease, then licking each finger.
They moved on to inside chores. She showed him how to jam kindling into the window frames as extra security. Then sent him to the basement for her box of Christmas ornaments. He returned with the box in both arms and a fat brown house spider on his shoulder. When she tried to swish the spider off him, he got offended and insisted on sitting in her kitchen, playing with the thing as if it were a pet.
“Spiders won’t hurt you,” he told her. “Spiders kill insects, not people. ’Sides, spiders are really cool. Have you ever tasted a spiderweb?”
She left him with his pet and tied Christmas bells around the handles of her front and back doors, the poor woman’s home security system. She had a few final chores to do, but first, she needed to run two errands.
“Well, child, are you coming or not?”
He scrambled to his feet. “Where are we going?”
“Hardware store.”
She struggled into her coat, her hat, her gloves. The boy only had on a thin shirt, so she sent him upstairs to Joseph’s room. He returned with a flannel top that fell almost to his ankles. She dug through the entryway closet until she found one of her mother’s old navy blue coats. That fit him better than her brother’s gear.
They hit the driveway, the boy stopping expectantly next to the garage.
“Don’t be foolish, child. God gave us legs for a reason.”
“God gave us cars for a reason, too,” the boy retorted, which made her cackle in surprise.
“Sold the car nearly ten years ago,” she informed him. “At my age, I have a hard enough time walkin’ a straight line, let alone drivin’ one.”
She headed down the hill, the boy falling in step beside her. She was too slow for him, so after a bit, he scampered forward and to the side, advancing, then retreating, in that puppylike way young boys had. He kicked at slush piles, jumped into puddles. Coated his borrowed clothes in muck.
It didn’t bother her. A fine young boy like him should be playing and jumping and getting covered in muck.
He should not, however, be spending his time with an old woman.
It took her nearly an hour before she arrived at the local hardware store. The boy walked in with her, but once inside, she lost track of him, having to concentrate. She needed chain locks. Three of them. Something sturdy that wouldn’t snap.
The price of steel locks made her blink, her hands trembling on her purse.
In the end, she bought only two and it was painful at that.
She discovered the boy outside the store when she was done, waiting for her.
“Now what?”
“Groceries. Young man, you can eat.”
She hobbled off for the convenience store. The boy bounded along beside her.
Mel was at the register. Looked up at her entry, raising his hand in greeting. His face stilled when he saw the boy, his hand dropping to his side, but he didn’t say anything. He appeared alert, however, watchful.
“I want Froot Loops,” the boy said.
“Too expensive.”
“Please, please, please.”
“Child, I buy food, not puffs of sugar. You want Froot Loops, buy ’em yourself.”
The boy wandered off to eye the candy bars. Rita stared at eggs and wondered when the whole world had gotten so expensive. She had twelve dollars left. Had to last her at least a week. But the boy obviously needed to eat more.
She would start making more omelets, beating water with the eggs to stretch the supply. She could make her own pasta, too, used to all the time. Big egg noodles tossed with the canned tomatoes in her basement would make a fine meal.
She wished she could buy orange juice, the boy could use the vitamins and it tasted so nice and tart on the tongue. In the end, she settled for powdered milk, which would probably make the boy fuss, though after all these years, it was fine enough for her.
Sausage was out of the question, bacon, too. She found the expired bread, and some mealy apples in the bargain bin. She’d mash the apples into sauce, toast the bread. Thinking along those lines, she found some half-priced beef and moldy carrots and onions, perfect for a stew.
Still, it broke her heart to count out each precious penny, and get only two bags in return. She eyed Mel expectantly, waiting for him to go into the back and complete their little routine.
Instead, he was eyeing the boy, who was still in front of the candy bars.
“Friend of yours?” he asked Rita stiffly.
“Helped me split some wood.”
That took some of the starch out of Mel’s spine. Now, he merely appeared uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t give him inside chores,” he muttered under his breath, but still loud enough she was sure the sharp-eared boy had heard.
“Mind your business, Mel. I’ll mind mine.” She took the two bags, struggling a bit to get them down from the counter, and Mel had the good grace to suddenly flush.
“Sorry, Rita, let me help you—”
But she no longer felt like dealing with the likes of him. She made her own way to the door. “Child,” she called, because she didn’t like saying the name Scott, didn’t think it fit him any more than her brother’s old shirt. “We’re done now.”
The boy dutifully came to her, following her out the door. He had his hands in his pockets. She had to clear her throat three times before he took the hint and grabbed one of the bags. Then, once more in silence, they trudged up the road.
A quarter way up, Rita had to stop to catch her breath. Her stomach growled, protesting its light breakfast, as she’d fed her toast to the boy. At her age, she was shrinking year by year anyway. The boy needed the calories in order to grow.
She looked up to find the boy eating a Kit Kat.
“Want one?” he asked politely, right before she grabbed him by the ear.
“Child, where did you get that candy?”
“Ow!”
“Answer me, boy! Did you pay for that chocolate? Go up to the cashier, count out some money when I wasn’t looking?”
“I … I …”
“You stole it, didn’t you!”
“I was just trying to help! You have hardly any money and
he has that big store filled with so much food. What’s one little candy bar anyway? He won’t even notice!”
“Show me your pockets.”
She let go of his ear long enough to force him to turn out his pockets. He had two candy bars, a bag of peanuts, and three Slim Jims. She shook her head in disgust.
“Well, there is only one thing left to do.” She picked up the groceries and started marching back down the hill.
“Where are you going?” The boy scrambled to keep up. When Rita was angry, she had some life left in her yet, and she was sorely angry right now.
“I’m fixin’ to take you back to the store, young man. Where you’re gonna give everything back to Mel. And then you’re gonna sweep out his storeroom as an apology.”
The boy stopped walking. “Why? You need food. I was helping you. See, I’m useful. You don’t like Slim Jims? Show me what you want. I’ll get it next time. Though you’ll have to keep buying eggs. They’re too big to steal.”
She stopped walking, just so she could glare at him. “Stealing is wrong.”
“I’ve seen your cupboards. They’re empty. I can help.”
“The good Lord helps those who help themselves.”
“Yes, exactly!” His eyes lit up. She realized she might not have picked the best proverb.
“Child! Enriching yourself at the expense of others is a sin. I am poor. My cupboards are bare. But I am strong and clever. I will prevail, without resorting to a life of crime. Now march!”
She kicked at his leg, prodding him into moving. He scowled at her, but scuttled forward, looking more perplexed than angry. At the bottom of the hill, however, he balked, refusing to enter the store.
She took everything from him, went inside herself, and laid it on the counter.
“My apologies,” she informed Mel. “It won’t happen again.”
“He’s trouble,” Mel murmured, arms crossed over his chest.
Rita regarded him haughtily. “He said he was only trying to help.” She gave him one last glare then shuffled her way out of the convenience store with as much dignity as a half-crippled old woman could manage.
