by Kylie Brant
“How much did she withdraw?” Cam wanted to know.
“Fifty thousand cash.” Boelin lowered his voice and said, “More than some clients would be allowed, at least without prior notice, but sounds like Van Wheton is one of the bank’s premiere customers. The branch manager had shared your alert with his employees, but the personal banker helping Van Wheton was also concerned about accommodating a valued client.” He broke off as a middle aged woman in a discreetly pin striped suit strode up to them briskly, the authority in her bearing heralding her identity.
“Are these the Iowa law enforcement people we’ve been waiting for?”
Boelin made the introduction. “Charlotte Dillon, bank president.”
Cam stuck out his hand. “Special Agent Cameron Prescott, DCI. My colleagues, Agent Jenna Turner and Dr. Sophia Channing.” He noted the speculative flicker in her eyes when the older woman turned to Sophie, but he didn’t explain further. “Is the personal banker who helped Van Wheton still here?”
“Yes, of course. Angie Gassaway. She’s in her office.” The woman hesitated. “I’ve spoken to the branch manager. He assured me that Angie followed all banking regulations during her interaction with Ms. Van Wheton.” Dillon was clearly in damage control mode. “She quite properly filled out a CTR during the interaction documenting the client’s stated use for the cash, as required by federal law.”
“We’re not here about the paperwork, Ms. Dillon. But we’d appreciate a word with Ms. Gassaway.” Cam gave a slight nod to Jenna and Sophia to follow the woman before turning to Boelin. “I’d like to see the security footage, if it’s still on site.”
The chief nodded. “I can show you a copy. Got the original at headquarters, seeing if we can get more from it with enhancements.”
“Enhancements.” Cam fell into step behind the man. “Like a license plate number? Or a shot of the driver?”
The man shot him a quick hard grin. “You don’t ask for much, do you?”
Two things upon meeting Angie Gassaway struck Sophia. One was her youth. The pretty brunette couldn’t be thirty yet. And the other was the lingering fear in her eyes. Sophia was content to observe silently as Jenna led the bank employee through the events of the day.
“Yes, large cash withdrawals are somewhat unusual requests, but not as much as you might think,” the woman said somewhat shakily in response to Jenna’s question. “Ours is a wealthy community. I guess I can tell you we keep enough cash on hand to handle several large monetary withdrawals daily. Not all the size of Ms. Van Wheton’s, of course. She seemed to know that her request would trigger a CTR. That’s a form we have to fill out for every cash transaction over ten thousand dollars.”
“And what reason did the client give for needing the cash?”
Handing Jenna a copy of the form she was discussing, Angie responded, “She said it was for a horse she was purchasing for her daughter, Tiffany. She mentioned that the girl’s birthday was coming up and what a good rider she was getting to be. The girl’s riding coach had a line on a thoroughbred with an excellent bloodline.” The banker shrugged helplessly. “I mean, I don’t know anything about horses, but it sounded plausible. You’d be surprised by the number of people who deal only in cash.”
“Had you ever waited on Ms. Van Wheton before?” Jenna asked.
“Not me personally, but I’ve seen her in here.” The woman lifted a shaky hand to smooth back her hair. “She usually heads right for the manager’s office. I was shocked and a bit nervous when she came to me.”
“Was there anything unusual her manner? Did she seem relaxed, anxious, afraid?”
“Oh, not afraid, I don’t think. A bit fidgety with the time it was taking to fill out the paperwork, but it would have taken as long no matter even if she’d seen the manager. She was more chatty than I thought she’d be. Not exactly friendly, but she mentioned her daughter several times. How happy Tiffany was going to be with the horse, that sort of thing. I think I was much more nervous than she was. Honestly, I never even thought about that bank alert until about a half hour after she’d left.”
“And who did you talk to once you remembered the alert?”
Angie looked uncomfortable at Jenna’s question. “Well…to be truthful…it wasn’t until an hour or so later that I said something. I kept telling myself it couldn’t possibly be relevant in this case. I mean…The Van Whetons have done business with this bank as long as I’ve been here. Longer. And then I got busy. But before I went to lunch I told the manager, Vaughn Sinclair, about it, and he called Mrs. Dillon, who tried to contact the client. When she was unable to reach the customer’s cell, she contacted the police.” She clasped her hands tightly on the desk before her, fingers clenched. “You don’t know how much I wish I’d mentioned it to someone right away. But it just seemed so far-fetched. I mean…the Van Whetons? Who would dare?”
Sophia watched the security images twice through without comment. Each time she was attuned to the victim’s body language as she approached the white panel van. Despite Gassaway’s assertion, Sophia saw anxiety and nerves in the woman’s rigid posture, her jerky movements. Van Wheton was dressed casually in knee length spandex tights and athletic bra covered by a loose fitting sleeveless cotton top. She carried a designer purse in one hand and a worn leather slouch bag in the other. Presumably the money was in the bag, although Sophia wasn’t quite certain how much space was required to carry fifty thousand dollars.
There was no hesitation in Van Wheton’s actions when she reached the van, which was running. She opened the back sliding door and let herself into the shadowy interior, although the angle of the images showed clearly that the passenger front seat of the vehicle was empty. Sophia reached forward to stop the tape in its final seconds, for the last clear shot of the victim before the door closed. It wasn’t merely nerves she saw in the woman’s eyes at that precise moment.
It was the bleakest fear.
“Why isn’t anyone out finding my mom? What are you all doing here?” Seventeen-year-old Chelsea Van Wheton’s demand might have sounded imperious were it not accompanied by the tears streaming down her face. “There have been cops here all day, and now you guys, so who the hell is out looking for her?”
“Entire teams of other officers, all of whom are reporting directly to your chief of police.” Sophia watched the long-legged teen swing out of her chair to pace around her well-appointed bedroom. Cam had asked Sophia to take lead on the interviews with the girls, assuming, rightly so, that the two would be fearful and traumatized by the day’s events. Boelin had already interviewed both, with the girls’ grandparents present, and neither had shed any light on the day’s activities.
But Sophia thought they might be able to offer insight on their mother’s personality, on her routine, and that could prove helpful. “I know every hour must seem like an eternity, but you have very well-trained investigators on this case. In the meantime, any little thing you can share could aide in the investigation.” She turned toward the silent daughter, Tiffany. At fifteen she looked much more like her mother than did her sister, with the same pointed chin and hair color. Clutching a large ragged stuffed bear, she seemed younger than her years. “You said you don’t ride anymore?”
The girl shook her head. “I haven’t ridden horses since I was a kid. Maybe ten or so. I don’t get why everyone keeps talking about horses. My dad wouldn’t buy me one then because he said I’d outgrow my obsession with them.” She hunched her shoulders. “I did.”
“I don’t understand how this could happen to my mom,” Chelsea put in insistently. “She’s hyperaware of security for all of us. After my dad died, she upgraded the security system on the house. She wouldn’t even let me drive myself to school, still insisted on picking us both up and dropping us off herself, or sending a driver. It’s embarrassing. And now she’s the one who vanishes? Just like that?”
“Can you think of anything she might have wanted to buy with the cash?” Sophia offered a gentle smile. “Maybe she jus
t didn’t think it was the bank’s business so she told them a story about a horse. Does she collect paintings? Sculptures? Do charity work?”
“She buys stuff, sure. But why couldn’t she just write a check for anything she wanted?”
Tiffany’s lips trembled. “After my dad died…mom promised us over and over that she’d take care of us. That she’d never let anything happen to us. And yeah, she was way over-protective and everything. But now to have her gone…there’s no way she’d leave us like this. Not if she had a choice.”
Sophia recounted the conversation to Cam and Jenna on their way to the motel an hour later.
“Boelin mentioned they didn’t really have much to offer, other than the locations where Van Wheton liked to run.”
“From her dress, it looks like she was picked up wherever she was jogging. If we can figure out where she ran yesterday, we might find someone who saw something.”
“We got more than that from the girls’ interviews, at least I did.” Sophia rolled her shoulders tiredly. She was much more of an early bird than a night owl. Her brain grew positively fuzzy after ten p.m. Which, in retrospect, might have been the cause for her lapse in judgment a few weeks ago when she and Cam ended up sharing a drink together. And much, much more.
She gave herself a mental shake and continued. “We talked before about how the offender might be controlling his victim. Van Wheton was inside the bank for nearly twenty-five minutes. Why does the UNSUB believe so absolutely that she’s coming back to the van with the money? How does the offender know she isn’t alerting the police from inside?”
“Maybe he wires them prior to sending them in,” Cam remarked. His features were hidden in the dark interior of the vehicle until a passing pair of headlights speared through the shadows, throwing his profile into sharp relief. “Or he might have figured some way to get video, too, to make sure she wasn’t handing off notes or triggering some sort of silent alarm.”
Sophia was silent for a moment, digesting that. “Yes, of course he would want some assurance, wouldn’t he? And remote surveillance would be much less threatening to him than following her inside, lingering in the vicinity to make certain of her obedience.”
“Boelin’s department is poring over the interior bank cameras for the time Van Wheton was inside, in case he did just that,” Jenna put in.
“So you’ve given up on the idea of two offenders working together to keep control over the victim?”
Although she didn’t detect any sarcasm in Cam’s remark, Sophia couldn’t be certain. “It’s too soon to say. But I think we’re overlooking the easiest way of all to control someone from afar. Their fear for a loved one. From what her daughters said, Courtney Van Wheton was very security conscious. She was also hyper vigilant about her daughters’ safety. What if the UNSUB used a parent’s natural fear for her children to control her? Maybe he convinced her somehow he had access to one of them. That they were in danger if Van Wheton didn’t do exactly as he said.” It didn’t escape her notice that they were all talking as if it were certain the woman had fallen victim to the same sadist who had buried six women in Iowa. Nothing had been proven yet.
But Sophia didn’t kid herself. The details of the day were eerily similar to the last time anyone had seen Urban and Williams.
This time she could hear the frown in Cam’s voice. “Van Wheton has daughters, and Williams had kids, but Urban didn’t. Not unless you count ex-stepchildren as old or older than she was, who were spread out across the country.”
Leaning forward, Sophia argued, “But Urban did have a disabled mother in an assisted living facility only thirty minutes from her home.”
“That’s right,” Jenna muttered around a yawn. “I remember that from the file. Fear…it’s the ultimate leverage isn’t it? Wiring the victim prior to sending them into the bank makes good sense, but doesn’t guarantee obedience. Some gutsy victim could have tried passing a note or yanking off the wire and getting help. There was nothing in the ViCAP files about failed attempts of similar crimes. But if the victims are made to believe the life of a loved one is in danger, their cooperation is almost guaranteed.”
“If she’s connected to Urban and Williams, these three women were wealthy and privileged. They lived in gated communities. Van Wheton’s daughters mentioned several times how security conscious their mother was. The offender could find easier prey to kidnap, torture and murder, but these wealthy victims were riskier. Which may motivate the UNSUB as much as the money,” Sophia mused aloud, struck by the sudden thought. Serial offenders often started with low risk victims but as their needs evolved, so did their motivations. Some required a greater escalation of danger to heighten their own enjoyment in their crime. She’d once consulted on a case where a serial rapist attacked females in their own home while family members were sleeping down the hall.
“It’s a good thought.” Cam was silent for a moment. “The Van Wheton girls didn’t report being approached by any suspicious strangers in the last few months, but all the offender needs is the ruse. He just has to convince the victim he has access to the loved one. It’d take even more planning, though. Not only would he have to stalk the victim, he’d have to acquire in depth knowledge about their family members.”
He shook his head. “Hell, it’s all supposition at this point. Right now we can’t even be sure that Van Wheton was taken by the same twisted bastard burying bodies around Des Moines.”
No one said anything in response to that. But Sophia knew that the more time that passed without a word from Van Wheton the likelier it was that the offender they were trailing had found another victim. She was as certain of it as she was that she’d found another commonality in the victimology analysis.
She sat back, pulling out her phone and bringing up the copy of the notes she kept on it. Women with dependents, she typed slowly, squinting in the darkness. It was reasonable to conclude the offender managed to convince his victims that he had the ability to hurt their loved ones if he wasn’t obeyed unquestioningly. Instilling that sort of fear would be exhilarating to the type of sadist they were seeking. Wielding absolute control over his victims added to his godlike mentality. And what could be more godlike than to hold their lives in his hand? She made a mental note to update her offender profile before turning in that night.
A sneaky sliver of memory supplied her with a visual image of the Van Wheton girls, home with their grandparents. First a tragedy had taken their father, and now their mother was missing. And try as she might, Sophia couldn’t imagine this thing ending happily for the two.
There were few other early risers in the motel’s complimentary breakfast bar. Sophia used the relative quiet to enjoy her yogurt and juice while she updated the victim analysis and emailed it to members of the investigative team. She was halfway through the Minneapolis Tribune when Cam walked in, making a beeline for the coffee.
She tilted her head to consider him. His charcoal suit fresh shave gave him an outwardly civilized appearance, at least to the unwary. The more observant would note the narrowed gaze and straight hard line of his mouth and make sure to remove themselves from his path. At least until he’d had his first dose of caffeine.
Sophia watched in mild amusement as he filled a cup halfway with coffee and then paused to drink before pouring more. He turned away from the machine as he sipped, his eyes meeting hers from across the room. But she wasn’t prepared for what she saw in them when he caught sight of her.
Heat. It flared in his gaze, frankly carnal. It stole her breath, had her stomach clenching in a tight hard fist. She’d seen that look often in the short time they were together, but not at all since she’d delivered her carefully constructed speech ending it between them. She’d almost convinced herself that his feelings had changed.
It had certainly been more comfortable to believe that. Shaken, she glanced away, her gaze darting back to him when he slipped into a chair at her table.
“Sophie,” was all he said by way of greeting. His voice
was gravelly in the morning, sandpaper dragged over silk. To her regret, his eyes had taken on a familiar guarded expression. “Not surprising to find you up at the crack of dawn. But at least you’re not singing today. It’s a scientific fact that everyone hates a morning person, but singing at dawn is cause for justifiable homicide.”
She picked up her juice, something inside her easing at the banter. He’d caught her in a duet with Taylor Swift while she made the morning coffee one day and hadn’t let her live it down. “Justifiable? Odd thing to hear from someone in law enforcement. And studies actually show that morning people overall are happier than night owls.” She brought the juice to her lips, eyed him over the rim of the glass. “Something for you to consider when you awake snarling and lethal.”
“Well, of course they’re happier,” he countered, reaching over to help himself to the sports section. “They’ve got the world arranged to their timeline, don’t they? The rest of us dance to their schedule. How would you morning larks like it if the workday started at a decent hour—say noon—and lasted until nine PM?”
Tipping her glass in a slight salute at his point, she conceded, “I wouldn’t fare so well. My mind is usually mush by eight.”
“That explains a lot, since when we met up at Mickey’s it was after ten.”
Her hand froze in the act of returning her glass to the table. He didn’t appear to notice. His gaze was lowered to a baseball headline. But she knew intuitively that the verbal grenade hadn’t been lobbed casually.