I glanced at my phone and saw emails from Neil, all of them with attachments, so I pulled the laptop out of my case and found the wireless key for the hotel. He’d sent me the list of the eight registered sex offenders who met the criteria we’d outlined. They lived within a thirty-mile circle we’d drawn around Whisper where Melinda Cochran lived, and the town of Silas where Tracy Davidson lived. They had been in the area when both girls were abducted and when Melinda’s body was dumped two months ago, and they had garages, basements, freestanding sheds, or barns on their property. There were a variety of charges. One of them had been busted in an online sting with child pornography. Two had been found guilty of indecent exposure and were considered low risk. I skipped over names and scanned crimes, read the details of the ones that interested me until I narrowed it down to two offenders who had exhibited extreme predatory behaviors, watched and groomed their prey, been convicted of aggravated child molestation, aggravated sexual battery, and aggravated assault with rape or intent to rape, and were designated as sexually violent. Most astounding was that both were classified as midlevel offenders. Their known victims were female and between the ages of eleven and sixteen. The files included statements in which both offenders, Lewis Freeman and Logan Peele, had first denied, then finally owned their crimes, while minimizing the effects of their behaviors on their victims. That should have been a big red flag. These offenders were likely to reoffend, if they hadn’t already. They were subject to impromptu visits from law enforcement, but the truth is, this doesn’t happen often enough. The department was probably as overwhelmed as most departments are around the country.
I pulled up addresses and zoomed in on satellite. Freeman lived between Whisper and Silas on an isolated piece of farmland dotted with milking barns and equipment sheds. Logan Peele lived in Whisper not a mile from where I was right now, in a redbrick house off the highway with an enclosed freestanding garage and a basement. I could see the garage and the ground-level basement windows when I zoomed in. Both men had the space to hold a captive. Both were known predators. I wondered if their private lives would allow for the practical matters one would have to consider when kidnapping and sexually abusing. How did they explain to family or wives the locked buildings and doors, food and water going into that holding cell, all the extraordinary measures they’d have to take to hold and keep a person alive for so long?
I went back through my photo stream, examined the photos I’d taken in the woods. Then I went back over the lab reports, the sheriff’s department records I’d carried out on a flash drive, and I began work on an offender sketch. It was another three hours before I set the alarm and switched off the lamp.
11
He saw her coming, emerging from the shadows in the predawn. It jarred him. He wasn’t expecting to see her this way under the streetlights. It was the kind of easy glide that came with practice. He’d seen girls run like that, like butterflies just skimming the surface. He liked her body, small, compact, tight little ass in jogging shorts. And she was probably thinking about him right now, thinking about him every minute, obsessing. Because that’s what she did. That was her dysfunction. It wasn’t unlike his. He’d read every interview, every recorded word she’d uttered as soon as he’d learned she was coming to Whisper. This woman had dedicated her life to studying people like him.
He sank down low in the front seat as she passed the diner and cut across Main Street. He caught himself smiling, felt a sudden and unexpected affection for her. He wasn’t afraid. He wasn’t angry. To his great surprise he liked having her here. Though it tempted him in dangerous ways, there was allure in letting her get close, in being understood by a woman.
Careful, he warned himself. But the temptation was too great. He reached in the backseat for his laptop, opened it to a blank document, and began to type. Dear Keye. I’m thinking about you too.
——
Whisper was warm and still as I ran under streetlights past darkened shop windows on Main Street, running shoes barely making a swish on dry sidewalks. I went through downtown and cut over to the lake, where I found a lamp-lit running path that curled around past boat docks with motionless herons and resorts where men in headlighted golf carts whirred around on their predawn maintenance, and lawn mowers busy readying the course for sunrise. The price of real estate took a steady climb the farther I moved away from Whisper. I passed other joggers near nicer hotels—happy joggers who’d slept on good pillows. I looped around a Marriott Resort and headed back for the last couple of miles. My body had returned to running with an easy memory I didn’t know it had for anything but booze and sugar.
I heard feet hitting the paved running path behind me and moved to the right to let them pass. “Morning.” It was Ken Meltzer’s voice. I kept moving but slowed my pace. I glanced over at him. He was smiling. His hair was soaked around the edges, hanging on his neck. “I thought that was you.”
“How could you tell? It’s not like I’m the only Asian in Whisper. Oh wait. I am the only Asian in Whisper.”
Meltzer laughed. I snuck a quick look at his running suit. You can tell a lot about a person by how they get dressed for a workout. He was in long, baggy silk shorts and a goofy oversize tank. His shoulders were tan and rounded. He’d worked on them, and it showed. “I do a lot better being in the office after a run,” he said. “Calmer.” He was winded. So was I. The sun was up and the temperature had spiked.
“Like a dog,” I said. “I mean, they behave better when they’re exercised.”
“Yeah, like a dog.” He laughed again, that easy, generous laugh. “Last one back buys breakfast.” He waited for my answer.
“Why are cops so competitive?” I asked.
“You’re the analyst. You tell me,” he said, and blasted ahead of me like he’d been slingshoted. The back of his shirt was drenched. He grinned over his shoulder. I couldn’t resist. I turned on the steam and caught up with him. We ran hard like that all the way back to Main Street, where we stretched and caught our breath, then cooled down over bottles of water the sheriff took from his SUV. I practically fell into my room at the Whispering Pines Inn, showered and changed, checked my email. Neil had delivered on the social media account for Melinda Cochran. There were 133 people on Melinda’s Facebook friends list. Eighty-two of them were local. The list was complete with email and physical addresses. I’d also sent GBI Special Agent Mike McMillan a couple of questions late last night. He’d offered those kinds of favors if I ever needed them after I’d been hired to investigate a crematory operator a few weeks ago. What I had found had the GBI racing to the scene. McMillan had replied last night to say he’d routed my questions to the proper expert. The reply from the forensic scientist was waiting.
I walked into the Silver Spoon diner at seven-thirty on the dot with a case hanging off my shoulder and my hair still damp from the shower. The restaurant was buzzing. The cook from last night was back on duty. He had help this morning. The kitchen was busy. Servers were on the go, and the sound of dishes and forks and the murmur of morning conversations had the place humming. And then I walked through. Conversations trailed off as heads turned and for just a moment a hush as loud as a foghorn settled over the room. Welcome to Whisper.
Kenneth Meltzer was sitting in a booth at the long window, his back to the door, steam rising off a thick white coffee mug. “Morning again, Sheriff,” I said, and slid in across from him. I took the case off my shoulder and put it next to me on bright blue imitation leather. A server showed up with a mug and a thermal pot. She asked if I wanted coffee. I certainly did. And I wanted food. Lots of it—scrambled eggs and white cheddar grits, roasted potatoes and an English muffin. The sheriff ordered his over medium with Virginia ham, a tall stack of blueberry pancakes, and a glass of milk. Milk. He was a Boy Scout.
“Starving,” he said. He was wearing a short-sleeved uniform shirt with the department’s logo like the one he wore yesterday, this one newly pressed. “Been a while since I ran with anyone. It’s fun. It makes me
push a little.”
“But not quite enough,” I said. “You are the one buying breakfast.”
He looked at me. “And here I thought cops were the competitive ones.”
“Point taken,” I said.
“Doris told me my investigators could have been a little more welcoming yesterday. Guess I should have warned you.”
Ya think? I tasted the coffee. Not a lot better than it was last night, but at least it was fresh. “What’s up with them?” I asked.
“They’re easily threatened.” The smile again, dazzling against his tanned skin. “Anything you can’t handle?”
“Not so far,” I said. “But it would be easier if they were on board.”
He nodded. “I’ll remind them. They aren’t bad cops. They just don’t readily warm up to outsiders. They don’t like me much either.” That much I knew, given Detective Raymond’s remarks in the woods. I wanted to ask why he didn’t just clean house, rid his department of feet-draggers and the drama that erodes morale. I decided to mind my own business. “So, tell me where you are. I’m interested in knowing your thoughts so far.”
“I created a profile based on the current evidence. I want to remind you this is an equivocal analysis. New evidence can always emerge and alter an offender profile. But based on the type of crime, the condition of the victims’ bodies, the crime scene, I’m confident it can help with investigative strategy.”
The sheriff pulled a digital voice recorder about half the size of a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, put it on the table between us. “You mind?” He switched it on before I could answer.
“I don’t,” I said. “But I emailed you everything in writing this morning.”
“I’m encouraged to see you’ve been busy earning your exorbitant consulting fee.” It wasn’t a full smile this time. Just an amused light in his eyes. He left the recorder running. “I don’t look at my email until business hours. It tends to ruin my day. Somebody needs me, they can call.”
“Noted.” I took the file folder Detective Raymond had delivered to me last night out of my case and handed it to the sheriff. The gold wire rims came out of his shirt pocket and he hooked them around his ears, opened the folder. “Neither Melinda nor Tracy had bone breaks prior to their disappearance,” I said. “The chips and fractures around the Davidson girl’s wrists and feet are consistent with metal restraints. Both victims had bone injuries, but there are some interesting differences. Could be a multitude of reasons for them. His living space, which probably dictates how and where he holds victims, may have changed. He could have moved since Tracy was abducted. This type of offender will attempt to establish control right away, with metal restraints, threats, torture, especially in the early days. If you can break their spirit they’re easier to handle. The differences in the level of violence used with the first and second victim tell me he needs a heightened level of victim suffering now to fuel his fantasy life.”
“What happened to Melinda?” he asked quietly.
“You didn’t read any of the injury reports?”
“We needed cause of death and we needed to confirm homicide and what kind of weapon we’re looking for. The rest of it didn’t matter.”
“It matters to me, Sheriff. It’s a way to chart his interaction with the victims. It’s a road map into his brain.”
“I get that now.” He avoided my eyes.
“Melinda had ankle injuries much like Tracy’s. A broken wrist, some superficial knife strikes or curiosity marks to her inner arms and face, four broken fingers on her right hand, two on her left.”
“What could have done that to her fingers?”
The sheriff wasn’t getting it. Not really. It wasn’t sinking in. “They weren’t broken at the same time, Sheriff,” I answered flatly. “He did that. One of the fingers hadn’t fully healed at the time of Melinda’s death.”
Meltzer blew out air like I’d slugged him in the chest. He looked away, found something in the parking lot to stare at. They were his friends, I reminded myself. He might have loved this kid. I decided not to describe the experimental cuts on Melinda’s body. It was all in the profile, though—the terrible, bloody curiosity of a killer finding and fulfilling new needs with the point of a knife and a terrified little girl.
“The location of the disposal site indicates familiarity with the area, and according to the interviews no one noticed a stranger in the days leading up to the girls’ disappearance,” I said. “But he didn’t just appear. He watched. He knew when they’d be alone. He’s local and it’s possible he lived or worked in the Silas area when Tracy disappeared. He might have moved to Whisper later. Or he may work in one town and live in the other. I’d look at real estate, DMV, and voter registration records for anyone moving between the two towns in the last decade. He may also have close friends or family he visits regularly in that area. There’s a reason he started in a town twenty miles from here. He’s white, middle income, married or divorced, probably has at least one child, a regular guy. And he was able to approach these girls without anyone noticing. He was able to attract them and get them close enough to overpower them. They trusted him. Why? Either because they knew him personally or because they recognized him. They believed they were safe with him. You need to look at everyone in these girls’ lives—teachers, coaches, the guy who runs the ice-cream shop, any authority figure. And consider this. He’s kept his captives quiet and alive for months. He has to have a property that will accommodate them—a basement, a shed, a garage, a barn, someplace he can lock up, someplace that’s just his. Some sacred space even his family wouldn’t think of intruding on. It could be a second property.”
“I know guys who won’t let anyone in their workshops,” Meltzer said. “And we have plenty of farmland with abandoned barns and shacks in this county.”
I nodded. “Your suspect has had to get at least two victims in and out without detection.”
“Understood,” Meltzer said tersely.
“Both abductions took place in the middle of the day, which means he could have flexible hours or work at night. He’s stable, balanced, shows up for work, and doesn’t set off any alarms.”
“How about age?”
“Age is tough. Theories have to be evidence-based, and there’s just not any evidence to support opinions regarding age. It’s risky to speculate.”
“You speculated he’s white and married or divorced,” Sheriff Meltzer argued.
“I deduced based on experience with offenders who are able to evade law enforcement for this long,” I answered, and heard the edge in my voice, corrected it. “They generally hunt within their own race. They usually fit in to the community—wife, kids, upstanding citizen, good neighbor, all that.”
“Okay. Sure. I get it. Off the record.”
“The first abduction took place eleven years ago,” I said. “He has to have a vehicle to acquire a victim, a space to hold a prisoner, and enough control over his environment to ensure that his space remains private. You could presume whatever you want from that. But it would be pure speculation.”
“This is good work, Keye,” Meltzer told me.
“It’s better organized in the files I sent you, but it’s always good to talk it out.”
“First new ideas we’ve had in a while. I knew a fresh pair of eyes would pay off.” The sheriff’s words trailed off. The server had arrived with breakfast. “Thanks,” he said and looked up at her with soft eyes. “You doing all right today?”
“We’re hanging in there,” she said sweetly. I saw something familiar in the set of her mouth, the cute snub nose, and realized she was Molly Cochran, the mother of thirteen-year-old Melinda Cochran who’d turned up dead in the woods and who sometimes came to the diner after school when her mother worked the second shift.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on afternoons this week, Molly?” Meltzer asked.
“They called me in early today.” She spoke with the kind of deep-woods southern accent that told you she’d grown up in th
e country. “But that just means I get to go home early.” The sheriff introduced us. Molly knew who I was. “I heard you were coming, Dr. Street. I hope you can help find out who done this to my little girl.”
“I hope so too,” I said. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“From the time she was a little biddy thing I always told her: Melinda, don’t talk to strangers. But she loved everyone. She was a real good girl.” Molly topped off my coffee and forced another smile. She’d decided a stranger had walked into the community and violated it, sliced into her world, taken her child away from her. Too much faith had been shattered already for Molly Cochran to allow for the possibility that it wasn’t a stranger at all who’d abducted and murdered her child. “If you have any questions or anything. I mean if there’s anything I can do to help. Me or Bryant. You just call.”
I looked into eyes too old and weary for such a young, pretty woman. “I will,” I promised. “Thank you.”
She patted the top of my hand, then returned to her customers, chatting, filling coffee cups, working for tips while she must have felt like her heart was breaking. The sheriff cut through a thick stack of blueberry pancakes with his fork and didn’t look up. I sat there, trying to swallow the lump in my throat, then sprinkled black pepper over my scrambled eggs and pushed them into creamy white cheddar grits. We ate in silence.
“She’s young to have a daughter about to start high school,” I observed, after a while. I felt eyes on me. It was like having breakfast in the bug lady’s aquarium.
“Molly got pregnant when she was sixteen. She and Bryant were high school sweethearts. Happens a lot around here. Pregnancy, I mean. There’s not that much to do.” Meltzer speared the last piece of ham on his plate and glanced around. He nodded and smiled at a few people. “Seems like you’re creating a little bit of a stir, Dr. Street.”
Don’t Talk to Strangers: A Novel Page 9