I went through the similarities again. Kristen Valeri was going to the mechanic in her “audition”; Lathan Collins was a mechanic. Pamela Westlake played a grad student; Lisa Johnson was a grad student. Fionna Michaels played a potential divorcee; Sophia Good was getting a divorce.
“We need to re-watch these again.” I quickly turned to the laptop and brought up Kristen Valeri’s video. “But we need to watch them in the order they were reported missing,” I added.
“What’s going on?” Cait said, as if my sudden excitement to watch the videos was cause for alarm.
“I don’t know,” I lied. “Maybe nothing.” I stalled as Kristen’s video loaded. I took a deep breath and let it out as I came to the conclusion that I should tell about Cait my suspicions. Even if I was wrong, she needed to know where I was going with this. “Lathan Collins’ second victim was a grad student from Cleveland,” I said. “Pamela Westlake plays a grad student. His fourth victim was going through a divorce—”
“—and Fionna Michaels plays a woman headed for divorce.” Cait nodded but didn’t seem completely sold on the notion. “What about Kristen Valeri?”
“She’s going to the mechanic,” I said, “and Lathan was a mechanic. It’s how he found his victims.”
“Okay.” She paused. “I see the correlation, but you said his second and fourth victims—what about his first and third?” Doubt washed over her face. “We only have three victims, and only two of them have any similarities to Lathan’s four.”
“I know.” More air escaped my balloon. I understood Cait’s doubts, but there was something deep in my gut telling me there was more to explore here. “You know how you’re absolutely positive the Deep Web is involved?” I reminded her.
“Yes.”
“I can’t explain it, but I’m just as sure about the victims being connected to Lathan.”
Cait nodded as if she knew not to argue with intuition. She perked in her seat as her eyebrows rose. “Alfa Mike,” she said clearly. “From the forums.”
“What about him?”
“He said there was a big surprise to come.” Cait paused. “A big surprise for the one-year anniversary.”
“Okay…?”
“The one-year anniversary of Lathan’s death is now, right?”
“Yes.”
“What do you remember about Lathan’s first and third victims?”
“His first was Angela Truman.” I swallowed hard as I said her name. The image of her face masked over Lathan’s rose from the underbelly of my memory. “She was a mother of three.” Nothing else really stuck out—other than the fact that Lathan was wearing her face when he died. It was possible he wore the faces of his other victims, but there was no way to know. Aside from Angela Truman’s, the face of each victim was still missing.
“Carmine Jenkins was his third,” I continued. “Her roommate reported her missing. She was the only victim found in the lake. She was weighed down,” I added.
“Is it possible Kristen Valeri is Angela Truman? Since Kristen was the first girl taken, as was Angela Truman?” Cait asked.
If my hypothesis was correct, it would make sense. “It’s possible,” I agreed. “But Sophia Good was Lathan’s fourth victim, and Fionna Michaels was our third. So that doesn’t add up.”
“Maybe we aren’t finished receiving the videos,” Cait said, her voice full of dread. “And we haven’t received them in order of disappearance, so maybe Fionna Michaels is actually the fourth person to go missing, not the third.”
As disheartening at it was, Cait could be on to something. “If that’s true,” I said, “then our actual third victim would have been reported missing sometime in July,” I said with a heavy heart. “I guess we’ll find out next Thursday.”
Thursday was becoming a day I rather feared. Just thinking of more videos summoned an unrelenting nausea from deep within my stomach.
“I think we should look more into this Alfa Mike,” Cait said as she slid the flash drive across the table. I picked it up and twirled it in my fingers. Did I really want to know what the Deep Web thought of me? The person who took away their hero? “Do you still have the files on Lathan Collins’ victims?” Cait asked.
I more than had the files—they were a part of me. They had become imprisoned in my mind. The information had somehow cocooned itself inside my brain. Anytime a victim’s name was mentioned, the crack of the casing echoed within my eardrums. It sounded like dry spaghetti snapped in half. As if the victims were trying to break free from my thoughts. As if they wanted to be more than morbid memories trapped inside my head. They wanted their lives back.
“All up here.” I tapped my temple with my left index finger.
“I was hoping for something more tangible,” Cait laughed.
“Yeah,” I laughed with her. “Down in evidence. I can sign them out for you. You won’t be able to with a temporary badge.”
I excused myself from the room and thought about the parallels of each victim as I walked toward the elevator. I pressed the “down” arrow multiple times, as if my impatience would somehow motivate the elevator to come to the fourth floor more quickly. Was all of this really happening? Lathan Collins was dead and gone, but he was still alive and thriving within my life. Would I ever truly escape him?
The elevator doors separated like a sideways mouth ready to bite into its next victim. I stepped inside and pressed the button for “B2.” The doors slid shut and the floor gave way as the elevator started its descent. A high-pitched beep that sounded like a heart monitor echoed inside the elevator as it passed each floor. I swallowed hard as I tried to block the feeling that the walls were closing in on me.
I was never one for claustrophobia, but for some reason, being in this elevator felt as if a metal vice had clutched onto me. It was tighter than a boa constrictor and narrower than an MRI machine. This feeling clung to me like a wet shirt after being thrown into a pool, and it wasn’t going to pass any time soon.
The elevator slowed before it came to a stop on the lower-basement level. The upper-basement level was where the station kept its public records. The lower level was for evidence. The Lathan Collins’ case was so high-profile that in order to respect the victims and their families, the unabridged versions of the case files were stored with evidence. The public was able to read abridged versions, but black lines had been placed over the personal information of each victim.
My reflection in the chrome-plated elevator doors stared back at me until the doors slowly separated. The illuminated button for “B2” quickly went out and returned to a pale gray shade. Just one more foot, and I would have freedom from this jail cell.
The poorly lit hallway stretched the length of a basketball court before it reached a door that looked more like a dead end than a passage. The door stared me down, like a bully who waited at the back of the school bus, and I cautiously took a step forward. Then another.
As my courage increased, so did my pace. The hallway grew brighter, as if I was walking toward my own light at the end of the tunnel. The strong chemical scent began to waiver as specs of dust danced under the pulsing light bulb above the door that led to the evidence room.
I opened the thick metal door and stepped inside. Even for being in the lower basement, this room was sad and lonely, like the visitors’ center in an abandoned amusement park. Behind a tall wooden counter, which separated the clerk from the officer, were nine rows of metal shelving units. Each unit had three shelves packed with evidence boxes and manila folders. The folders unevenly protruded out, like weeds in a small garden.
I hadn’t been down to evidence since I’d returned to work. The one time I would’ve needed to come down here, Abram had the item I needed. I envisioned an elderly woman in her nineties would come out from behind the counter. Her gray hair would be tussled back into a loose bun as she sluggishly walked from the counter to the shelves in order to retrieve the requested files. It would be faster if I just jumped over the counter and looked for the files myself
, but I would try my best to be patient with her. I would be polite and let the woman do her job.
Resting on the counter was a logbook and a chrome bell. Next to the bell was a hand-written sign that read “Ring for Service.” Although meant to be inviting, the bell sat on the counter like a four-year-old boy pouting on the steps during a timeout.
Before I could ring the bell, a faint voice called from behind the shelves.
“How can I help you?” A thin figure emerged from the shadows.
She wasn’t as elderly as I thought she would be. In fact, she was quite young—almost too young to be working in such an isolated department. Her brunette hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, with loose strands that fell around her long face. She wore thick-rimmed glasses, the kind that kids used to get made of fun of for wearing.
“I need some case files, please,” I said as I unclipped my badge from my belt loop. The young woman cocked her head to the side as she looked me up and down. A knowing smile inched across her face.
“Sure!” Her grin grew as I gave her my badge. It was protocol to have an ID badge scanned when taking out evidence. In the event that a file went missing, administration would have a detailed log of where it was. She looked at the photo on my ID and then back at me, her smile stretching so far across her face that all I could see was her teeth.
As she swiped my badge through the scanner, I noticed Rachel Sanzone’s novel on top of her desk. The cover photo of the faceless man stood out like feces in a bag of diamonds. I no longer needed to guess why she was so elated to see me.
“Which case are you looking for?” she asked.
“C-R-fifteen-C-zero-ten,” I rattled off Lathan’s file number. It was standard to use numbers instead of names to prevent any files having the same name—although I knew there was only one Lathan Collins in the database.
“Okay, just a second…,” she said as she wrote down the case number on a piece of scratch paper. She set the pen down and looked at me with intrigue. She lowered her voice. “Can I ask you something?” We were the only two people here, so I was uncertain why whispering was necessary.
“Sure,” I said as I braced myself for a Q&A about my time with Lathan.
“I’m reading Rachel’s book,” she said. “It’s really good. There’s so much I didn’t know about the case and all she went through.” She spoke at the speed a teenage girl does when talking about her crush. “If you hadn’t been there, who knows what would have happened to her. She thinks of you as her personal hero. We all do.”
“What’s your question?” I dismissed her statements. Although it was flattering, I didn’t see myself as Rachel’s hero—or anyone else’s. A hero doesn’t have nightmares after the epic battle. A hero rides off to slay the next dragon, trauma-free.
“Will you…,” she paused and looked toward the ground, “…sign my book?” She looked up and locked eyes with me. Her gaze was layered with hope, as if she had just asked the most popular boy to prom.
I was absolutely speechless. Out of all the questions I had been asked in the past year, a request for my autograph was new to me. I didn’t want to sign her book. Those weren’t my words; I wasn’t the star of the novel. As far as I knew, the Lena Evans in that story was a fictional character who just happened to have my name.
“Rachel signed it,” the young woman quickly added. She turned and took the two steps needed to retrieve the book from her desk. “See?” She held open the front cover. There, written in dark permanent marker, was Rachel Sanzone’s autograph, complete with a hand-drawn heart under her name. “You could sign right here, next to her name.” She pointed to a blank space on the page.
“I don’t know….” I slowly began to let her down. “I’m not sure if I’m even allowed to sign it, especially at work.” I tried to make up a reasonable excuse. “It’s not a good use of city time.”
“Oh.” The young woman’s smile drooped into a frown. “I understand.” She closed the book and set it on the counter. “Have you read it?” Her tone was dry.
“No,” I said. “I was there. I know what happened.” My answer may have come off snider than I’d intended.
“Right,” the woman said as she picked up the piece of paper with the case number on it. “I’ll get this for you.” And she sulked away before I could thank her.
Although I felt terrible that I had denied her request, I knew it was for the best. If I signed one book, I would have to sign them all—if I was asked. It was better that I got myself into the habit of saying “no” before it got out of hand. If it traveled down the rumor mill that I wouldn’t sign her book, then maybe no one else would ask.
From back in the corner, I heard boxes and files being moved from the shelf, and I assumed it was the young woman retrieving the file I needed. Would she think it was odd that I had requested Lathan Collins’ case? Had she gone through the file herself, being a huge fan and all? It was must get pretty boring down here.
After a minute or two, the young woman came out from the shadows. She was still holding the piece of paper but nothing else. She had a puzzled look on her face, as if she was trying to solve a riddle. She barely made eye contact with me when she walked up to the computer and clicked a series of keys on the keyboard. “Hm,” she said to herself as she scrolled through the database. “The boxes aren’t back there,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I asked. How could they not be back there? All case evidence from the past five years was supposed to be stored here. After that, it went to another facility where it would remain there forever.
“They were signed out,” she said as she scrolled through the screen. “In April of this year. They haven’t been returned yet.” She shrugged.
“Who signed them out?” The case had been closed. No one should have taken the files out. Unless an officer was bribed by the media, but even that didn’t make sense. Any news story on Lathan since his death didn’t contain any information that was considered privileged knowledge.
Rachel’s book. Maybe an officer had been bribed for information for her book.
“Detective Ryan Novak,” the young woman said. “He signed the files out on April seventh at one thirteen in the afternoon.”
“Detective Novak?” I repeated. Detective Novak had retired a few days before I’d returned to work. They had used my empty office to hold his retirement party. When I came back, streamers and party favors were still taped to the walls. “Are you sure?”
“His badge was swiped. It couldn’t be anyone else.” She shrugged again.
“Okay, thank you.” My mind raced as to why Novak would want the Lathan Collins’ files. There were more than just notes and reports in those boxes; everything would have been there—including any evidence obtained at the crime scene. The only item that wouldn’t have been in there was Angela Truman’s face. That had been given back to the family. And the city had paid for her body to be exhumed so that she could be buried intact.
I left the evidence room and briskly walked back to the elevator. I was going to have to wait to bring this to Flu’s attention. He wouldn’t be back until Sunday afternoon, and I didn’t want to bring this to admin’s attention in case my paranoia had caused me to overreact. If Detective Novak still had the evidence, Flu would know why. And it was best to wait and talk to him about it first.
CHAPTER | THIRTEEN
AFTER A VERY LONG day at the station, I arrived home to find Abi’s side of the closet empty. Movies from our DVD collection were missing from the shelves. But all of the bowls and glasses, pots and pans, and pieces of furniture were still at the house. Either she didn’t care to play “this is mine” with insignificant items, or she would save the notion of co-ownership as an opportunity to argue over the washer and dryer at a later date.
Seeing the half-empty closet—and knowing that Abi wouldn’t be coming home—I was forced to face a reality of my own making. I sat alone in the living room, my heavy feelings blanketing themselves around me, and I stared into the air.
There was no noise to keep me company. The only friend I found solace in was my gun, perched on the arm of the couch.
As I sat in silence, the sun slowly fell past the horizon. Tones of dark orange and deep purple cast through the living room window and danced across the floor. I stared at the colors all evening until they faded into a rich black.
I turned on the lamp beside the couch and noticed my cell phone on the end table. I needed to call Abi. I needed to talk to her and see how she was doing. I wasn’t going to beg for her to come back, though part of me wanted to. I didn’t want to be alone on a Friday night—or any other night— but I couldn’t manipulate Abi’s feelings just for my benefit. That part of our relationship was over.
With a deep sigh, I picked up my phone and called her. Little to my surprise, it went straight to voicemail. It was probably for the best; texting seemed cowardly, but I wasn’t emotionally strong enough to brave a full conversation.
“It’s me,” I said into her voicemail and paused. I should have thought this through before I dialed her number. I didn’t know what to say, only that I needed to say something. “I see you got your stuff.” Another pause. “I called because….” I paused again and sighed. A million reasons raced through my head, and all I had to do was grab one. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t swallow back the tears to tell her I was sorry. “…I wanted to see how you’re doing. Things kind of got out of hand last night,” I rambled. “I think we should talk—clear the air between us.” I paused again. “I’ll be at Bento’s on Sunday if you want to meet me. Around noon?” Bento’s was a casual restaurant that didn’t get a lot of business, even on a Sunday. It would be a quiet place for us to talk on neutral territory. “I’m sorry, Abi,” I finally said through a thick coat of tears. “I really am.”
With nothing left to say, I ended the call.
Fast forward to Sunday, and here we were—two strangers who knew everything about each other, blankly staring at each other.
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