Holding the Truth

by Calle J. Brookes

  Not at all.

  “You have lots of friends here,” he said as they entered the elevator. She’d just finished speaking with a woman even smaller than Bailey was, who’d had cinnamon hair and thick glasses. They’d spoken easily and for a few minutes, using scientific terminology that Clay hadn’t fully understood. The conversation had only ended after a big tough-looking brute in a patrolman’s uniform came looking for the woman. He’d greeted Bailey, too.

  The entire exchange had cemented the fact that Bailey could do well in Finley Creek.

  Away from him.

  “Acquaintances. But it was a nice place to work when I was here. Before.”

  “You’ll be here every day if you transfer. You don’t think it’ll get boring?” He couldn’t imagine being inside doing the same job every single day. Clay did his best work out there in the world. Not in the lab.

  He had no clue what it would be for Bailey.

  She was damned good at the forensics side of things. She just understood it in ways that he didn’t. That others in his post didn’t.

  He’d known she was good at it, but for her to be head-hunted by Marshall told an entirely different story—one in which she was damned good at forensics.

  He’d hate to see her not use the potential she had.

  “I don’t know. I’ll discuss that with Haldyn and Chief Marshall. Once we finish this case.”

  “I don’t want you to go. I think we can work something out about...”

  “About how you feel about me. I don’t think it’s all that complicated. I’ve been attracted to men before, you know. I think I can control myself. If not—well, I’m not a virgin, either. I think I’ll manage to be just fine.” Dry sarcasm now.

  Clay turned to look at her. His blood had just gone from 98.6 to 398.6 in a single instant. “Maybe you will. But I won’t.”

  “Seriously, Clay? I think you’re a big boy. You can control yourself.”

  “Sure I can, honey,” Clay leaned closer as the elevator doors slid open. “But only if I want to.”

  He didn’t miss the way she shivered.

  ***

  “You’re a jerk, Clayton Addy.” Bailey shot a glare at him as the elevator door opened. They stepped into the second-floor lobby.

  “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just a coward who has finally grown a set. Hell, Bailey, I’m a Barratt at heart. Not much keeping me from pulling a Houghton right now. I’ve tried fighting what you make me feel. For over a year now. And nothing’s changed. It’s just gotten stronger. Last night made that perfectly clear.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “When we were on that bridge—the only thing I could think about was keeping you safe. Because if something ever happened to you, I wouldn’t be able to breathe again. There’s your friend from forensics.”

  Bailey turned. Haldyn was headed right at them.

  “Hey, Bailey, Sheriff Addy. Please come into the conference room. I’ve laid out what I have for on the table.”

  Haldyn was usually no-nonsense. Bailey appreciated that. It made things simpler. “Thanks, Haldyn. Did anything stand out?”

  “Other than your killer’s MO has remained remarkably consistent, even over thirty years? Our ME will be in in an hour, if you’d like to speak with her. She took a look at the Kurtland Chase body, the Farm Road 2658 body, and the body found in the Sandoval field. All were female, all were within twenty to forty years of age, and all were ruled homicides. Then I believe she compared them to the unsolved cases you referenced.”

  “And?”

  “The four unsolved—three are most likely the same killer. The fourth was questionable. She had dark hair, was a bit heavier than your other victims, and older. And things seemed sloppier.”

  “Was there any DNA or biological samples?” Clay asked.

  “I had sperm in one of the victims—but the sample was so old we were only able to get a partial profile. I’ve sent it up to Wichita Falls for more analysis. There’s a specialist there that is trying a new technique that might get a better profile for you.”

  Bailey understood what the other woman was saying. With only a partial DNA match, they’d not be able to do much. Not yet. “What about the cellophane?”

  “Cheap, available everywhere. Easily ripped. But they were alive when he wrapped them. I think they were chemically subdued, but I’m waiting on tox results from two decades ago. Madi will get those to me sometime this week. I’m not holding out hope on that.” Haldyn pointed to the largest piece of cellophane evidence they had. “We have signs of respiration here. The pressure of the soil and the heat of her body, plus the time she spent in the elements, even buried, have imprinted her face on the inside layer. And he used multiple rolls. The cellophane was more than a quarter of an inch thick. Layer by layer. Except over her eyes. It was only a single layer thick there.”

  So they could watch their killer as they died. Bailey bit back the bile before it could choke her. Someone who could do that was evil.

  She’d seen that kind of evil up too close and personal. She knew what those women had felt knowing they were going to die.

  And could do nothing to stop it.

  “Is there anything you can give us that can lead us to a name?” Bailey asked. What they’d had for all the cases was almost nothing. Plastic wrap and a semen sample. Eye witness statements.

  And dump sites that were rural but clean.

  Haldyn seemed to read her mind. “Too clean.”

  “Excuse me?” Clay turned toward her. “What, honey?”

  She shot him a look at the endearment, then looked at Haldyn. The other woman smirked and nodded—almost in approval.

  Heat hit her cheeks. “I said, everything is too clean. Even the dump sites. No footprints, no fibers, no tire tracks. The plastic wrap should have yielded fingerprints or palm impressions. Something.”

  “That’s the same thought I had. But other than forensics from your victims, I have yet to find anything. That doesn’t mean it didn’t exist—especially in the previous cases, but whether it was properly collected, labeled, stored, or even submitted in the climate as it was twenty-something years ago, is an entirely different question. And you are still missing two bodies from the missing persons list.”

  “How did you connect the missing persons to the bodies we’ve found?” Clay asked.

  “It’s a stretch, and it’s not really my department, but your witness statements. And both women’s purses were found. I have people trying to connect the DNA from the bodies with the DNA in the purses. They are old samples, but I’m hoping we can get something. But it could be a long shot. I’ll warn you now not to get your hopes up. There were traces of industrial-grade soap on the straps—which could further destroy any samples.”

  “That’s strange,” Bailey said, taking the print out Haldyn held out in her direction. “And it is still testable?”

  “Possibly. The purses were bagged and sealed in plastic evidence bags. Almost creating a vacuum. And then unprocessed.” Haldyn’s tone told her exactly how the other woman felt about that. “It was signed off on by Peter Holte, Bailey.”

  “I see.”

  Clay cursed. “So soap is all we have to go on?”

  Haldyn nodded. “Basically. Unless my DNA team can find something worth using.”

  “Twenty-something year old soap residue, cheap plastic wrap, and clean dump sites. That’s it.” It wasn’t much to go on. Clay’s mind ran over everything they would need to do next.

  “I’m not giving up. I have more tests to run. And I’ve spoken with the ME. She’s going to submit your Chase and farm road victims to the FBI for forensic skull reconstruction. I’ll let you know when the results come in.”

  “Have those purses been fully processed for fingerprints or fibers or hairs or what else you all do here?”

  “Not yet, and there wasn’t much there to begin with, sheriff. Not after all this time. And I strongly suspect a killer this organized and prepared wouldn’t have been that reckl
ess.” Haldyn hesitated. “When you catch this guy, it probably won’t be through forensics. I hate to say that, but what we have isn’t just limited, it’s old, and he’s taken forensic countermeasures. I’ve got more cellophane to process. It was found a few hours ago at the Chase site—I sent two techs up there to process the scene again. But I’m not holding out hope, after all this time. I’m sorry.”

  Chapter 90

  They spent the next several hours going over each test result one by one. Haldyn took that time explaining the results to Clay.

  Bailey tried to soak it all in. To imagine it.

  If nothing else, they were getting a clearer picture of who their killer was. Even if they didn’t know his name.

  He was unassuming, quiet, probably now in his fifties or early sixties. Caucasian, with blond—possibly graying—hair. He was cleanly and organized. And might be connected to the medical industry.

  He would have been in Finley Creek twenty-eight years ago, in Value at the same time period—no stretch as they were only forty miles apart—and even in Garrity twenty-seven to thirty years ago.

  And was back in Value now.

  But their missing persons cases stopped around nine years ago before starting up again.

  Why?

  What would account for such a long resting period?

  “What if he was in jail? Kevin’s last missing person that’s a strong possibility was actually worked by Detective Foster and his former partner.” She dug out her copy of the initial incident report. “It was a little over nine years ago. Her body has never been found. Before that, it was almost consistently a missing person at least every three years for nineteen years. We haven’t completely dated the farm road body or the Chase body, but it’s a bit unrealistic to expect he stuck to that pattern with earlier missing persons. Then didn’t kill for nine years? And now he just starts up again? So either he has hidden his bodies much better. Or—”

  “There’s a reason he hasn’t killed over this nine-year period,” Clay said. “Either he was out of the region for whatever reason—family, job, military service—or he was incarcerated on another offense.”

  “It’s another lead, Clay. And between that and the idea he was connected to the medical field, just about all we’ve got.”

  ***

  It was a long afternoon. Bailey had a counseling session at W4HAV that Clay had taken her to, and she’d changed out of her uniform while still at the TSP before entering the building. Some people inside the charity got nervous when she was around and in uniform.

  While she’d been in talking with Mel, Clay had been across the street with Dr. Holden-Deane and the former head of personnel for the hospital, getting personnel lists from all those years ago. Then Clay had stuck around to speak with members of the staff who had been at the hospital for twenty-five years or more about the list of names they had to work with.

  Bailey crossed the street to meet him at the hospital. W3HAV was right across the highway and parking lot. When she walked in, she saw Nikkie Jean leaning against the counter.

  Her friend looked up and smiled. “I saw the sheriff with the chief of medicine five minutes ago. I bet that’s who you are looking for.”

  “Yes, that’s him.” She spent a few minutes speaking with Nikkie Jean, Jillian Deane and her sister-in-law, Lacy. They’d made a point of reminding her that they would be starting choir practices for the benefit that their sister-in-law Ari would be organizing for W4HAV in two weeks.

  It was all so normal sounding. Nothing at all like what she’d just left behind.

  She looked around the hospital. There was a large portrait of the founding family in the main lobby—the Barratts, of course. The patriarch in that painting looked a whole lot like the Barratt who was striding toward her now.

  Jillian said something to her, something about Clay. Bailey barely heard it.

  Who had their victims just chatted with? Who were their normal? Someone had to have seen something all those years ago. Possibly someone who the TSP hadn’t bothered to interview.

  Because they hadn’t done their jobs—or cared enough about the victims to even try.

  Who would have been in the area long enough to see them and plan how to get to them with the most minimal amount of forensic—or eyewitness—possibilities?

  “You ready?” Clay asked.

  She just shook her head. She turned to the Deanes and Nikkie Jean and said her goodbyes.

  She was quiet as they walked outside toward Clay’s Tahoe.

  Once they were inside the vehicle, she told him her newest theory. “He watches them. Long enough to know that they are going to be easy to take.”

  “Probably. They’re low-risk victims.”

  “He’s in their sphere. They see him before. And they think he’s normal. Average and unthreatening.”

  “Yes.” He looked at her as he started the engine. “It’s getting late. Let’s go grab dinner at Mamaw’s Place. We’ll talk on the drive back.”

  She nodded. They’d spend a few hours going over what they’d learned once they made it back to the precinct. It might be the only hours they had.

  Tomorrow, now that the waters of Bracker’s Mill Creek were receding, she and Clay would have to go give reports of what had happened to the county officials so that the bridge could get repaired sooner rather than later.

  And she wanted to see the bridge in the light of day.

  It shouldn’t have collapsed as it had. Bailey had questions about why it had.

  They might have a murderer to find, but they still had a county to keep safe. It was going to be a never-ending job for the man next to her.

  He’d have to dedicate his life to it. Bailey understood what that would mean. The sacrifices he would have to make. The choices. And Clay was the kind of man who insisted on doing it alone. “Do you ever get tired, Clay?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In this job. We have the victims, and we have bits and pieces of nothing. It can be tiring.”

  “Yes, it can. And it can start to eat at you. But you just got to find a way to not let it. To push it away. Do your job. We see the worst people have to offer the world. And we see it every single day. Hard to look for rainbows and cotton candy in that. Sometimes all we can do is hold on and survive until we get through the storm again.”

  She didn’t have anything else to say as he drove to the small bistro on Seventeenth Street. It was a favorite place. Parking was tight, so they had to pay to park in a garage five blocks from the restaurant.

  As they walked down the street after they’d finished eating the down-home southern comfort food, Bailey caught a glimpse of their reflection. It was only seven-thirty. Still plenty of daylight left for them to be visible.

  Her hair stood out. Her height. None of the victims were more than four inches taller or thirty pounds heavier than she was. The man next to her was tall, strong, and handsome.

  Clay drew female attention just by breathing; that was for sure.

  They got looks, no doubt. Bailey studied the people walking around them and confirmed that. People said hello, smiled when they passed. Clay helped one woman pick up a stack of books when she dropped them.

  And people got out of his way, but not because of fear. But because Clay had a presence that said he had important places to be.

  When he bumped her shoulder and then leaned down to ask her a question, she caught the expression on the elderly woman’s face. Approval.

  No doubt the woman thought they were a couple.

  Something flipped in her head.

  Not prostitution. But something else. Some deeper. “They trust him, Clay.”

  She thought of every date she’d ever been on. Thought of every time she’d been alone with a man. Clay, Jake, the men she’d dated before—when a woman was alone with a man she was at her most vulnerable. That never truly changed.

  “There is implicit trust. I think he wooed them romantically. Not by paying.” There would be more signs of a s
truggle if he’d just turned on a prostitute. But these women hadn’t fought back in time to accomplish anything. They hadn’t been noticed. They’d just walked right through the neighborhoods, unnoticed. Because there hadn’t been anything to notice. “He was dating them, they trusted him, they were alone with him, and then he blitz attacked them. No time to struggle. No time to fight him off. It was just done.”

  “But he abducted at least four of them right off the streets.”

  “Did he? Or did their boyfriend or lover pull up beside them, and they just get into the car? Jake and Bert have both picked me up at W4HAV before. They just pull in—especially Jake—and I got out to meet them. Less than fifteen seconds in the parking lot. I doubt anyone has ever noticed. Or could remember me or the vehicle, if they did.”

  “Probably not. How many of these people we’ve passed will remember us—especially if we don’t do anything to stand out?”

  “It would explain why there hasn’t been more reports of what had happened. Even twenty-eight years ago.” She looked up at the man next to her. “We could go get into the Tahoe right now and I don’t think anyone on this street would even notice us. We could have an argument, and they’d just think it was a lovers’ quarrel. And we’d be forgotten about by morning. But if you were to try to drag me off the street—someone would notice. If it got physical. He’s romantically involved with them. Enough to get them to let their guards down. He’s patient and methodical, and he is still out there. Probably watching another woman right now.”

  Chapter 91

  Bert had called the precinct. With a message for Bailey. She didn’t know why he hadn’t just called the girl’s cell phone, but he hadn’t. She hadn’t believed that nonsense about not having Bailey’s number in his phone. Not in this day and age. He could have texted that son of his—or stopped by the library in town and gotten it. No.

  Bert had been lying. He’d wanted something. Information.

  Veri was convinced the man had been fishing for something. Damn him. He’d confused her again. After she’d told him the girl was off somewhere with Clay, Bert had disconnected. Said he’d call Clay for what he wanted instead.