No Man's Land

by David Baldacci

  tell anyone. And even if he is innocent I still don’t know what happened to my mother. I let this mess sit for thirty years. No more, Knox. No more. Buck stops here. I get this done or die trying.”

  “But Puller, this could take a long time. You have a job. The Army is not going to let you indefinitely—”

  He barked, “To hell with the Army, I’ll resign if I have to, but this case is getting solved.”

  She looked to be about to make a response but then seemed to catch herself. She took a breath and stepped out of the room to make the call.

  Puller went back into the bathroom and looked out the window.

  Where did you go, Mom? Where?

  She just walked down the street and disappeared.

  Puller looked down at his phone. He and his brother and father had left Fort Monroe shortly after Jackie Puller disappeared. He had been back to the post a few times on official business, but never for more than a few hours at a time.

  He did a search on his phone. The relevant search terms were “crime,” “disappearance,” “murder,” “women,” the year, and “Hampton, Virginia.”

  The search did its thing and Puller gaped at the result.

  The first item said it all.

  Police suspect serial killer in murders of four women in Williamsburg, Virginia.

  The story was from the same year and month his mother disappeared.

  And Williamsburg was thirty minutes from Fort Monroe.

  Son of a bitch!

  Chapter

  24

  KNOX WALKED BACK into the room and said, “Okay, I’ve got the ball in motion on the phone call and we’ll see what they can find.”

  She stopped because Puller was hunkered over his phone and hadn’t even looked up when she had spoken.

  “What’s up?”

  “Give me a sec.”

  He finished reading the screen and put his phone away. He quickly explained what he’d found.

  “Serial murders in Williamsburg?” she said, her eyes wide in amazement.

  “Same time period, and Williamsburg is only about a half an hour from here.”

  “But we can’t know that they’re connected.”

  “And we can’t know that they’re not,” he retorted.

  “Why’d you even think to look into something like that?”

  “First rule of investigating a cold case: Were there other crimes in the area that might be connected to yours? I should have done it a long time ago.”

  “So a serial killer gets on a military installation, kills your mother, and, what, carries off the body?”

  “I don’t know. I just know that there’s a possible lead there. And yes, it was an active military installation. But at that time of year when my mother left, it was already dark. And there were never many people on the streets. The officer quarters weren’t always full and there weren’t a lot of young kids who would be out playing. My dad was an exception. He got married later. I can’t think of many one-stars with really little kids. They tended to be older. The fact is this area was pretty isolated and away from the busy part of the post. And back then some of the buildings weren’t used. She could have been dragged into one of them. So it might not seem that a killer could strike here, but he could.”

  “But how would he get on the post?”

  “He might have already been on the post.”

  “You mean in uniform?”

  “There were lots of people who worked at Fort Monroe that were not in uniform. But yes, he could have been in uniform.”

  “I take it the serial killings in Williamsburg were never solved?”

  “They never even found a suspect to charge. Four murders. All women.”

  “And the bodies?”

  “Found scattered around the area, mostly in isolated places and shallow graves.”

  “But if your mother was killed her remains were never found.”

  “No. But if he did kill her he might have done a better job disposing of her body.”

  “What was the timing of the murders? Meaning any after your mother disappeared?”

  “No. They stopped. The last victim was three nights before my mother vanished.”

  “Was there any regularity to the attacks?”

  “A couple weeks or so in between each.”

  “So your mother would have been an anomaly in that pattern?”

  “Yes, but serial killers don’t always stick to a pattern. Sometimes they seize an opportunity.”

  “Which you may be doing by latching on to this, Puller.”

  He stared down at her. “It’s a potential lead, Knox. That’s all.”

  “And it’s a very cold case, so how do you propose chasing this lead down?”

  “The police file would be a good start.”

  “And will you approach the local police in your official CID capacity?”

  Puller didn’t answer.

  Knox added, “Because you’re not officially tasked to take on that case. And you’re not officially working on this one, so I’m not sure how that would fly.”

  “You could get those files.”

  “I probably could, but I’m not officially tasked to do this either. I have superiors to answer to, just like you.”

  “Really? So you’re here on vacation time and nothing else?”

  She stared at him and he just as resolutely glared back at her.

  “We could run that in circles for days,” she finally said.

  “I can run for days. How about you?”

  “You’re not making this easy, Puller.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Well, I guess it’s hard to argue with that,” she said sarcastically.

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “I’ll make a call.”

  “Say it may be in the interests of national security. That’ll push you to the head of the records retrieval line. Otherwise we might be waiting for months. Tell them you’ll send a CID agent to pick them up for you today if they can have them ready.”

  “Phone records from thirty years ago and now a file on four cold murders. My, how this case has evolved.”

  “Cases always evolve, Knox. They’re like living things. And sometimes they turn into something truly unrecognizable.”

  * * *

  Five hours later Knox learned that the phone records from thirty years before were impossible to access. But on the plus side, they were staring at ten file boxes filled with copies of everything the Williamsburg police and FBI had on the serial murders.

  They had carried the boxes up to Knox’s hotel room and stacked them against the wall. They ordered room service and started going through them.

  Knox sat cross-legged on the bed. She had changed into black leggings and a pullover. Her feet were bare. Her hair was pulled back into a knot.

  Puller had on the same clothes he’d worn that day, except he’d taken off his windbreaker. He sat at a small desk against the wall, intently poring over documents and photos and making notes on a legal pad.

  The room had a balcony with a slider, which Knox had opened to let in the ocean breeze.

  A minute later room service arrived with their meals. Puller had opted for steak and a baked potato, Knox for a salad with shrimp.

  Puller was surprised to see the bottle of red wine.

  After the attendant left, Knox uncorked the wine and poured out a glass. She sniffed it and then looked at him.

  “I don’t know about you, but I think a lot better with vino carbs in me.”

  He slowly nodded. “Okay.”

  “I don’t think we need to let it breathe. It has all its got to give right now. Their wine list was actually pretty good.”

  “Above my pay grade. I’m more a beer guy.”

  She handed him a filled glass and they began eating their meals while still going over the files.

  Puller took a bite of steak and said, “The locals didn’t do a great job of processing the crime scene, and it doesn’t seem that the
FBI raised the bar much when they came on board.”

  Knox swirled the wine in her glass before taking a sip. “Well, we know the high standards you have, Chief Puller.”

  “This isn’t a joke, Knox,” he retorted.

  She glanced up at him. “I never said it was. And unless you’ve forgotten, I’ve seen you process a crime scene, so it was actually a compliment. And just for the record, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t bite my head off over everything I say.”

  Puller looked down. “I’m sorry. This case…”

  “Is like no other, I get that, Puller. So let’s keep digging and see what we find.”

  “Okay,” Knox said a few minutes later. “The best I can make out, all the women murdered were single, professional types in their late twenties.”

  “Which is very unusual for a serial murderer,” noted Puller. “The populations they often go after are prostitutes, runaways, people with little family support, risky occupations.”

  “And no one to care when they go missing,” added Knox. “But your mother fits none of those categories. And she also doesn’t fit the young professional type.”

  “It could be a one-off,” suggested Puller. “Or a wrong place, wrong time. If he saw my mother walking alone in her Sunday best? And while she was older than the murdered women, my mom looked a lot younger than her age.”

  “She was a beautiful woman, Puller.”

  He looked up to find Knox staring at him from the bed.

  “You’ve seen a picture of her?”

  “Like I said, I did my homework before I came here.” She paused. “And I’m seeing her right now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have your dad’s height but your mother’s eyes, nose, and cheekbones.”

  Puller glanced down at the file he was holding, evidently uncomfortable with her observation. “I guess I never really thought much about that.”

  “Because it reminded you of your loss?” said Knox.

  Puller didn’t answer her.

  She said, “It is a weird coincidence that a serial killer was operating barely thirty minutes away killing young women and it doesn’t seem like the police here even made inquiries into whether your mother’s case was connected or not. At the very least they should have done a little digging, particularly since they really had no other leads.”

  “It’s more than weird. It’s inexcusable.”

  He reached over and snagged another file he’d brought into her room.

  “What’s that?” she asked, finishing her wine and pouring herself another glass.

  “CID file from my mom’s case. If the special agent on the case is still alive maybe we should talk to him.”

  “You think he’ll remember anything pertinent?”

  “It’s why we ask the questions.”

  They finished going over the files and then Puller made some calls and located retired CID agent Vincent DiRenzo. He left a message for DiRenzo, rose, and stretched out his tall frame.

  “I think that’s all we can do tonight, Knox.”

  Knox had taken off the pullover, revealing a tight white tank top underneath. She laid aside a file, sat up, freed her hair from the knot, tousled it, and looked at him.

  “It’s not that late,” she said. “And we haven’t finished our wine.”

  “It’s after midnight,” he pointed out. “We both need to get to bed.”

  “Okay.”

  He stared down at her and she back up at him.

  “What?”

  “You know what, Puller.”

  “Where exactly is this coming from?” he asked quietly.

  “It’s coming from a missed opportunity back in Kansas.”

  “So you’re saying you made a mistake?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, considering this.

  She moved over to the edge of the bed and touched his arm with her hand. Knox’s large eyes locked on his as she rubbed his arm. Puller felt a jolt of something go right through him.

  “I want this, John,” she said. “Right here, right now. I just want to be with you.”

  He said, “And you’ve thought this all the way through?”

  “I don’t want to think anything through. I’m leading with my heart, not my head.”

  He thought about this for a moment as she continued to stroke his arm. “We’re working a case, Knox. So I have to lead with my head. Good night.”

  He walked out the door.

  Knox sat there looking devastated.

  She let out a long groan and slumped back on the bed.

  Chapter

  25

  I’M SORRY ABOUT last night.”

  A pale Knox glanced over at Puller, who was driving due west across Virginia. They were on their way to see retired CID special agent Vincent DiRenzo. He lived on Smith Mountain Lake near Roanoke.

  Puller kept his eyes on the road. “I don’t like getting played, Knox. I don’t deserve that, not from you.”

  She tapped her toe against the floorboard. “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning I would like to know why you really showed up on my doorstep.”

  “I already explained that.”

  “No, you already told me a bullshit story. I’d like the truth now.”

  She folded her arms over her chest and looked crossly out the window. “So I guess because of what I do for a living you always think I have a hidden agenda? That I’m never telling you the complete truth?”

  “Couldn’t have summed it up better myself.”