by Lisa Gardner
But just for a moment . . .
I am sad. I am scared. I am lost.
I am one of those girls all over again.
“You can go back to the hotel if you want,” D.D. tells me gently.
As if I really could.
I shake my head. I turn back toward the direction we came from. Keith makes some adjustments to his compass. Then as one, we move toward the dead.
CHAPTER 11
KIMBERLY
THINGS WENT A LITTLE DIFFERENTLY than expected,” Kimberly Quincy said into the phone.
It was nine P.M. She was finally back in her motel room after one of the longest days of her career. She’d spent the past few hours in conversation with her supervisor, plus the taskforce team. Now, she needed fifteen minutes of sanity before the next round of logistical planning. Through the phone, she could hear her girls chattering away in the background. Nine P.M. was bedtime. No doubt they were taking advantage of Mac’s distraction to launch one last misadventure.
The sounds of real life. Kimberly could never decide if such normalcy was the most beautiful or most disconcerting noise after a day such as this one.
“You find more bones?” Mac asked from their home in Atlanta.
“Bodies. We found more bodies.”
A pause. “Girls,” he said to their daughters. “Go pick out something to read. I’ll be back in a sec.”
“Last time you tried that, they beat each other with the books instead.”
“But it did wear them out,” Mac countered.
She heard a click. A door closing. Mac retreating from the girls’ adjoining rooms in order to head to the master for a moment of privacy. She closed her eyes. Let herself picture it. Their modest ranch-style home with its open family room, overstuffed sofa, jumbled floor. One bedroom awash in purple (Eliza’s). A second room adorned in shades of blue (Macey’s). Both filled with an assortment of sports trophies, stuffed animals, and well-thumbed reads. Then there was her and Mac’s space, where the bed was never made and family photos lined most surfaces and the treadmill sat in the corner where it was genuinely used during the hot, humid days of summer but served as a substitute clothes hanger the rest of the year.
She kept meaning to paint an accent wall in the bedroom. And to organize the closet and tidy up the master bath. But the truth was, she never had that kind of time, and probably wasn’t even that kind of person. She and Mac lived for their family and their jobs. Which she liked to think made them perfect for each other.
“From the beginning,” Mac said.
“The cadaver dogs found three more bodies.”
“Three more?”
“At least. We dug down enough to unearth three skulls, but withdrew to wait for the forensic anthropologist, Dr. Jackson. Maybe there’s more underneath? I don’t know. Best we could see was a tangled mess of bones.” Kimberly’s hand shook slightly holding her cell phone. “A mass grave, Mac. When was the last time you heard of a serial killer burying three victims at once?”
Mac didn’t answer right away. She didn’t expect him to. She still didn’t know what to make of the day’s discovery and she’d had hours to ponder it.
“How old is the grave?”
“The remains appear fully skeletal. We’ll need to wait for Dr. Jackson and her team for additional details. I’m wondering about the shallow burial. Most things people want to keep secret, they bury deep. But all four of these bodies were barely interred. Meaning our perpetrator is someone who knows the area well and was confident the graves wouldn’t be discovered? Or didn’t have the time or strength to dig a full grave? Flora says Jacob Ness wasn’t the fittest guy around. I don’t know.”
“Are the new bodies also female?”
“We have to wait for Dr. Jackson for proper exhumation. She was adamant her team and only her team handle the grave site. At this stage, soil, bug exoskeletons, flora, and fauna, all of it will matter. We’re not the right people for the job.”
“But you’re betting female,” Mac guessed.
“The skulls appear small, which would be consistent with female. Also, I have to believe this grave is related to Lilah Abenito’s, and she was a teenage girl. I don’t know. Are we seeing what we want to see? Have I approached this case all wrong from the start? Honestly, I’ve never felt so stupid, and I’m supposed to be leading this taskforce.”
Kimberly sighed again. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she rubbed her temples, where she could feel a budding headache.
“You called for reinforcements?” Mac checked.
“Marshall agreed to activate ERT.” Marshall was her boss, and the Evidence Response Team was the FBI’s elite group of specialists who assisted with particularly involved evidence collection. Kimberly herself was a member. Sometimes ERTs assisted in jurisdictions that couldn’t afford to have evidence techs of their own, or lacked the FBI’s lineup of sophisticated toys. Other situations, such as plane crashes or mass casualty events, simply demanded greater resources. Kimberly’s Atlanta team had been called to work the Pentagon site after 9/11. One of her instructors had talked about raking the debris for days to recover a single gold wedding band. The look on the widow’s face, she said, when they were able to give at least that much of her husband back to her . . .
Kimberly’s instructor had passed away five years later. Cancer. Most likely from exposure to hazardous chemicals at the site. FBI agents often talked about having a call to serve. Very few civilians understood just what that meant.
“You doing okay?” Mac asked softly now.
“I’m struggling,” Kimberly admitted. “With how to manage this mess—the amount of people to supervise, the pressure for immediate answers to horrific questions . . .”
“You think the graves are Jacob Ness’s handiwork?”
“I think we’d be lucky if that was the answer. Old dumping grounds from a deceased predator.”
“Fits expectations while minimizing fear. And given you didn’t find any new remains, works with the timeline of a guy who’s now dead.”
“We know serials don’t magically quit,” Kimberly considered out loud. “And to the extent all the bodies we’ve currently found are fully skeletonized, I would guess we’ve made a fresh discovery of an old crime. That fits the timeline for Ness, while making for a compelling narrative: Ness started off kidnapping girls near or around his trucking route. He brought them back to the relative quiet of the mountains, then dumped the bodies. Until he built up the confidence and resources for longer term abduction scenarios, such as what he did with Flora.”
“What does Flora think of the new discovery?”
“She’s . . . troubled. Could Ness have killed and buried four young women? Absolutely. But Jacob hiking up a mountain, wandering through the woods while carrying a corpse . . . According to her, not in a million years. He was the laziest kidnapper who ever existed.”
“Could Jacob have driven up to a different trailhead, then hiked down to where you found the bodies?”
“That’s a good question. We haven’t had time to scope out the full network of trails up here. Everyone wants answers now, of course. If only it were so simple.”
“Yep.”
They both fell silent for a moment. Kimberly leaned her head against the wall and listened to the steady rhythm of her husband’s breathing, as familiar as her own. No more sounds of their daughters, meaning Eliza and Macey had either settled in for the night or, more likely, were engaged in some kind of criminal conspiracy. She should let Mac go. Let him return to his responsibilities while she tended to hers. But she wasn’t ready yet. She needed this. A moment of calm in the storm.
“Wasn’t Jacob Ness known for his binges?” Mac asked at last. “Drinking, drugs, that sort of thing?”
“Yes.”
“Could that be what the three girls represent? Homicidal rampage? Ted Bundy certainly had his inf
amous night where he attacked an entire sorority.”
“Bundy was frenzied that evening. He struck and moved on. That’s easier than transporting, then dumping three bodies in a single grave.”
“Which brings you back to wondering about an accomplice. Someone with local ties, who drew Jacob to the area. In that scenario, three girls isn’t so implausible.”
“Want to come to Niche, Georgia? The locals keep eyeing us with suspicion, and the mountains are dotted with skeletal remains, but other than that, what’s not to love?”
“Oh no, you got this. Besides, all cases get worse before they get better. It’s the nature of the beast.”
“True.” She shook out her shoulders, sat up straighter. Time to get to it.
“Call if you need to talk. Even in the middle of the night. I don’t mind.”
“The joy of our jobs.”
“The key to our marriage,” Mac corrected gently.
Kimberly smiled. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
“Mac, the girls have left you alone for a very long time . . .”
“Pray for me,” he agreed.
Kimberly smiled again. She touched her lips with two fingers, as if she could send her husband a kiss across cellular towers. As if she could feel the brush of his lips in return.
Then, she went back to work.
CHAPTER 12
D.D.
D.D. DRAGGED FLORA AND KEITH to the county sheriff’s first thing in the morning. The building’s conference room would be serving as command central for the original taskforce. Given yesterday’s discovery of additional remains, a mobile command post had been set up at the base of the hiking trail to coordinate the bone experts and other forensic specialists who would be scouring the mountainside.
Kimberly and D.D. had spoken late last night. Given the explosion in size and scope of the investigation, Kimberly had requested that D.D. partner with Sheriff Smithers on local interviews, as Kimberly would need to supervise the exhumation of the newest grave. A big ask, and a nice show of trust from a federal agent for a city cop not even in her own jurisdiction. Which just went to prove how understaffed their taskforce was. In fact, D.D. suspected Kimberly knew D.D. intended to drill the locals one way or another. This way, the feebie probably figured she’d have some control over the situation.
Like others hadn’t tried and failed to manage D.D. before.
D.D.’s mood was downright cheerful walking into the squat municipal building. Shuffling behind her, Flora looked like she hadn’t slept a wink, Keith either. But what else was new?
Personally, D.D. loved this phase of a major investigation. Gearing up for battle. Here are the knowns; here are the unknowns. Now marshal the troops and get it done.
The sheriff wasn’t in the conference room. D.D. recognized two FBI agents from their original taskforce meeting. One was directing local officers to various stacks of paperwork, while attaching a giant map of hiking trails to the main wall, front and center. D.D. guessed blown-up maps of Niche and the surrounding towns would go up next. Plus the murder board, photos of each victim, what was known. Then a basic whiteboard for organizing group discussion.
The second FBI agent seemed to be the designated IT guy. The tables had been moved into a standard U-shaped configuration. Now he was distributing laptops at discrete intervals while referring back to his own computer, where he would then type furiously away. Most likely, the agent was establishing a secure network for all the taskforce computers, rather than utilizing the sheriff’s system. It was a better way of managing all the data and ensuring chain of custody of sensitive docs. Welcome to the new age of policing, where the issue wasn’t getting information but managing the deluge of data. From witness statements to hotel records to restaurant credit card receipts, they’d be drowning in docs by the end of the day. D.D. appreciated the FBI had better tricks for managing the madness, given their expertise in major cases.
D.D. waved hello to the overworked agents, earned curt nods in return as both remained on task. Then, given the level of chaos, she exited from the room—Flora and Keith still trailing behind—and headed down the hall.
If she were the sheriff, she’d be taking refuge in her own office, away from the bedlam. After a few tries, she found his office.
“Sheriff Smithers.”
The sheriff had indeed been leaning back in his chair, feet up, eyes closed. Now he bolted upright, feet dropping with a thud to the floor, his hat falling from his head.
“Uh, uh . . .” He clearly recognized her, but was too befuddled to remember her name.
D.D. took pity on the exhausted man. “Sergeant D. D. Warren from Boston PD. Call me D.D. And you remember Flora Dane, Keith Edgar.”
The three of them could barely fit in the office, given the small size and piles of paperwork. The sheriff looked around belatedly, as if he should offer them a seat, but couldn’t figure out how.
He gave up with a deep sigh. “Ah hell.”
“It’s okay. There are more important things going on right now than housecleaning.”
“Got that right.”
“SSA Quincy asked me to meet with you this morning, coordinate the interview efforts.”
“Yes, ma’am. I spoke to her last night.” He looked past D.D. to Flora and Keith. Neither had said a word. Sleep deprivation? Shell shock from a sad case that had already taken a sadder turn? D.D. didn’t know, but she turned and eyed them expectantly.
Keith managed to extend his hand, mutter a greeting. Flora just stared at the sheriff. The flatness of her expression didn’t bode well. The woman had retreated deep inside herself. Maybe a protective measure. Maybe honing her homicidal impulses.
“With all due respect, ma’am”—the sheriff eyed D.D.—“those two are civilians.”
“Guilty as charged,” D.D. agreed.
“Can’t have civilians conducting official interviews.”
“Agreed. Not to mention, talking really isn’t Flora’s strength.” She arched a brow at the silent woman. She got nothing back. Definitely not good.
“Did Quincy review with you her initial goals?” D.D. turned back to the sheriff.
“Yes, ma’am. Identify town leaders, influencers—”
“Busybodies,” D.D. offered helpfully.
“Business owners,” the sheriff continued dryly. “Get the lay of the land.”
“Are there neighbors who give them the willies, known town crazies?”
“I already pulled the names of everyone with a criminal record, ma’am. Got officers assigned to pay them a visit. ’Course, not the easiest line of questioning—what were you doing fifteen years ago? Now, we can flash around photos of Jacob Ness, but who’s gonna admit to knowing a monster like that?”
“They probably won’t. But you can ask their neighbors if they ever saw anyone matching Jacob’s description visiting the area. I’d also ask about his rig. Identifying a vehicle feels safer than getting involved with a known rapist.”
The sheriff nodded.
“Is there a town leader? Minister, mayor, who might be a good guide to the local population?”
“There’s Mayor Howard. Um, Howard Counsel. He and his wife, Martha, own the historic B and B on Main Street. One of the grand old summer homes. As close to fancy as we get around here.”
“Wraparound porch, rockers everywhere?”
The sheriff nodded. “That’s the one.”
“We should definitely pay him a visit.”
“We?”
“You and me. If he’s the mayor, he’ll want a show of respect. Two uniformed officers asking him questions will only rile him up. Two leaders from the taskforce, including the county sheriff, stopping by for a friendly chat to update him on what’s going on in his town . . .” D.D. paused.
The sheriff nodded, getting the gist of what she was saying.
“He’ll appreciate the attention,” she finished, “and of course we’ll ask him some questions while we’re at it.”
“Mayor Howard and his wife . . . their families go way back in these parts. I don’t know how open they’ll be to outsiders, but they’ll want to see this matter quickly resolved. A sensational murder case, well, it’s unseemly. Not to mention bad for business. They aren’t going to want our taskforce lingering.”
“Perfect. Are they early risers?”
The sheriff shrugged.
“Doesn’t matter,” D.D. decided. “After the excitement of yesterday, I doubt anyone is sleeping anyway. Let’s go.”
The sheriff blinked. “Right now?”
“No time like the present.”
The sheriff reached down for his hat, still looking a bit frazzled. “I’d like to change my shirt,” he said.
D.D. realized for the first time that the sheriff did appear quite wrinkled. As if he’d slept in his uniform. Poor man. “We’ll step outside. I’ll give Flora and Keith their assignment. Then all of us can get cracking.”
“We have an assignment?” Keith asked.
“Absolutely.” She ushered them out the door into the hallway.
“What?” Keith asked, as she closed the office door behind them.
In answer, D.D. studied Flora. The woman remained distant. But maybe a task would rouse her out of her fugue state.
“Right now, we’re spinning in circles. Is this Jacob’s work or not Jacob’s work? Yes, he could murder four girls. But no, he probably couldn’t handle disposal of the bodies.”
Flora nodded, still appearing a million miles away.
D.D. sharpened her tone. “We need to know once and for all if Jacob was in this town. A final, definitive, yes he was part of this.”
“I told you, I was in a box. I never saw—”
“You never saw, you never heard,” D.D. interjected curtly. “But what did you do? Come on, Flora, earn your keep. You’re not here for decoration.”