Deep Dark

by Laura Griffin

  Veronica secured a mask over her mouth and nose. She carefully removed the lid to the box, and Reed eased closer to look inside.

  It was a silver hammer, long and slender. The instrument was shiny and elegant-looking—except for the circular face, which was coated with dried blood. Veronica pulled the box closer, and sunlight glinted off a strand of blond hair.

  Reed’s eyes flashed to hers. “You have a ruler?”

  She pulled a measuring tape from her pocket and handed it over. He let out several inches of tape and held it up to the face of the hammer.

  “What’d you get?” Jay asked. “Does it fit the description?”

  “One-point-five inches.” Reed looked at him. “It fits.”

  • • •

  By the time Reed got back to the station, Phelps had been cooling his heels in an interview room for more than three hours. Reed swung by the lab and found Veronica at a computer looking at fingerprints. She glanced up.

  “You finish with his laptop yet?” he asked.

  “I got what I needed and delivered it to Paul.”

  “What about the cell phone?”

  “Same.”

  Reed’s phone buzzed as he headed upstairs, and he recognized the number of the Ann Arbor detective he’d left a message for earlier. He took the call to his desk.

  “I got your message,” the detective said, and Reed pegged him for a veteran cop based on the sound of his voice. “You guys turn up something on our cold case?”

  “Possibly. It looks like your case has some similarities with one down here in Austin. You remember much about the investigation? I realize it’s eight years ago.”

  “It’s not something you forget,” he said. “The victim was nineteen. She’d been raped and had her skull bashed in. It was bad. And I had teenage girls at the time.”

  No wonder he’d returned Reed’s call so quickly. The detective had probably lost a lot of sleep over the case through the years.

  “According to the records, they think a hammer was used?” Reed asked.

  “They never did figure out what kind. That was one of the mysteries. It wasn’t your standard size, according to the pathologist who looked at the skull injuries.”

  “I’d like to read the file. You mind shooting it over?”

  “Sure. You’ll want to check the sketch, too, see if it reminds you of anyone you’re looking at.”

  “There’s a sketch?”

  “Yeah, we had a witness at one point. Victim’s neighbor. He claimed he saw a man around her apartment the day before the murder, maybe tampering with her lights. We had him sit down with a police artist to come up with a drawing.”

  “I’d definitely like to see it.” Reed rattled off his email address and asked the detective to call him if he thought of anything else that might help. Almost as soon as he ended the conversation, another call came in. UNAVAILABLE, which was probably Laney’s new phone. She’d given him her number this morning, admitting the possibility that someone might be spying on her digitally.

  “I was about to call you,” Reed said.

  “I bet.” She sounded sarcastic. “You tell your lieutenant about the cold cases?”

  “Not yet. Where are you?”

  “Just picked up my car from the impound lot. Listen, I’ve got some news. I talked to Scream’s brother a few minutes ago.”

  “Gantz’s brother?”

  “Yeah, he tells me Edward bounced back after the last round of meds. He’s doing much better now, and they decided to go ahead and release him today. I’m going to stop by and see him later.”

  Reed didn’t say anything. He didn’t like the idea of her going to visit the guy, not until they sorted all this out. And probably not even then. Gantz had a long rap sheet, and the last time she’d been to see him, she’d nearly been killed.

  “He’s awake and alert now,” she said, “just in case you want to interview him or anything.”

  “You said he hates cops.”

  “He does, but you’re not FBI, so you might have a better chance. You should at least try to talk to him.”

  “I will. But I’ve got my hands full right now with some new developments. We executed a search warrant at Ian Phelps’s place.”

  “You—wait, what?”

  “Ian Phelps.”

  “Are you serious? How many times do I have to tell you Ian didn’t do this? Come on. He’s a sales guy, not much going on upstairs. There’s no way he pulled off an exploit of this magnitude.”

  “I know all that, Laney, but we found evidence in his car. A potential murder weapon.”

  “What?”

  “A body hammer. With blood on it. And some bloodstained clothes.”

  “Are you making this up?”

  “No. Why?”

  She laughed. “Because it’s utterly absurd, Reed. Who leaves evidence like that in a car?”

  “Maybe someone who doesn’t have much going on upstairs. Or someone who wants to get caught.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “I’m not sure what to believe at this point. But I definitely have some questions to ask him.”

  “Get me his computer,” she said. “I will absolutely prove to you Ian had nothing to do with this.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Ha. You think I believe you? You’re trying to fucking placate me, Reed. You don’t want me involved.”

  “You’re right, I don’t.”

  “Well, I am involved. Give me an hour with that computer, and I’ll disprove this stupid case theory.”

  “How can you be so sure he didn’t do it?” Reed asked, just to hear her make her argument.

  “Because I know the guy, Reed. Ian’s a lot of things—a womanizer and a narcissist and even a halfway decent software salesman. But a hacker he is not. Ian Phelps couldn’t defeat a Rubik’s Cube. There’s no way he could pull off an exploit like this.”

  Reed scrubbed a hand over his face. He was tired and discouraged and sick of arguing.

  “Where’s his computer now?” she asked.

  “In our lab.”

  “Let me come in and take a look.”

  “Laney—”

  “At least let me talk to Paul, tell him what to look for.”

  The door swung open, and Jordan walked out. “Damn it, there you are. Hall’s looking for you. He wants to get started with Phelps.”

  “Laney, I have to go. Call you later, okay?”

  But she’d already clicked off.

  • • •

  Reed found the lieutenant in the observation room. The screen mounted on the wall showed black-and-white video footage of Ian Phelps sitting by himself in an interview room.

  “We need to get cracking,” Hall said. “So far, he’s cocky and overconfident. He waived his Miranda rights, but we need to get things moving before he changes his mind.”

  Reed glanced at the screen again. Phelps look thoroughly bored. Not the reaction Reed would have expected for a man who’d been picked up by investigators before managing to stash a bloody murder weapon someplace safe.

  “This is his sheet?” Reed took the paperwork from the table.

  “Yeah.”

  He’d seen the information before. The guy had almost nothing on his record—just a half-dozen speeding tickets over the past decade.

  This didn’t feel right to him. None of it, including Laney going to visit Gantz today. Reed was goddamn sick of her pushing him away and ignoring his advice.

  “You need to finesse this thing,” Hall instructed.

  The lieutenant was all hyped up, no doubt relieved to have a suspect he could parade in front of a camera just as the media was getting wind of the serial-killer angle.

  “Finesse what, exactly?” Reed asked. Hall made it sound lik
e he wanted him to pull a confession out of thin air.

  “You’ve talked to him before, so see if you can get him comfortable, get him talking. We want him to retell his story about the night of the Abrams murder, catch him in some inconsistencies. Pin him down, get him to lie, but don’t let him know you’re doing it.”

  Reed shot Hall a look, then took the file and made a stop by the break room. He bought a couple of Cokes from the vending machine and grabbed some paper from the recycle bin to beef up the file. Then he walked into the interview room.

  “Ian. How’s it going, bro?” He tossed the file down and slid a Coke across the table.

  “This is harassment,” Phelps said. “I’ve got half a mind to call my attorney.”

  “You’re welcome to.” Reed offered him his phone, and Phelps eyed it suspiciously. “Or I can get you a private room if you want. Maybe you’d rather use a landline?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Let’s just get this over with. I’ve got a tee time at two.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem.” Reed popped open his Coke. He opened the file and took a long look at it as he sipped. Phelps took the other Coke and watched Reed defiantly as he popped the top and guzzled it down.

  “Says here you’re twenty-nine.” Reed flipped a page. “Where’d you go to school?”

  “UT.”

  Reed looked at him. “University of Texas?”

  “Yes.” He sighed. “Come on. Is this what you waited three hours to ask me?”

  Reed smiled. “We’re getting to it. April Abrams, she went to Vanderbilt University, is that right?”

  “Right.”

  “That’s up in Tennessee. Nashville, I believe.”

  Another sigh.

  “You graduated what, seven years ago? Eight?”

  “Seven.”

  “That’s undergraduate?”

  “Yes.”

  Reed thumbed through the file, as if it contained anything relevant. “And your major was . . . let’s see . . .”

  “Communications.” Phelps leaned forward, setting his elbows on the table. “What does this have to do with anything?”

  “Just something I was wondering.” He closed the file and pushed it aside. “You maybe get a master’s degree along the way?”

  “No.”

  “You ever do any summer school or maybe an internship anywhere?”

  “Summer school, yes. Here in Austin.”

  “What about University of Michigan?”

  “What about it?” He glanced at his watch again.

  “You ever take any classes up there? Or live there for any length of time?”

  His brow furrowed. “No.”

  “Ever visit any friends or family in Michigan? Maybe take a vacation?”

  “No.” He was scowling now. “I never set foot in Michigan.”

  “You never set foot there.”

  “Maybe I’ve been through an airport. So what?”

  The door opened behind Reed.

  “Detective?” Jordan gave him a pointed look. “Sorry to interrupt, but you’ve got a phone call.”

  Reed excused himself. Out in the hall, Jordan shot him a look. “He’s pissed.”

  Reed walked into the surveillance room, and Hall was red as a beet.

  “What the fuck, Novak?”

  “I’ve got some information—”

  “You’re supposed to be talking about his timeline. What’s this about Michigan?”

  “There are two unsolved homicides up there, and the evidence shows multiple similarities, right down to the type of hammer used.”

  “Two cases in Michigan? Where did you get this?” His face flushed even redder. “You went to the feds behind my back, didn’t you? I’ve had it with your shit, Novak.”

  Reed gritted his teeth.

  “You probably went to the media, too.” Hall jabbed a finger at him. “You’re the source behind that leak last night.”

  “Wrong.”

  “That’s it, you’re done. I’m yanking this case away, and if you get near it again, I’m yanking your badge, too.” Hall turned to Jordan. “You’re up, Lowe. Get your ass in there, and get this guy talking.”

  CHAPTER 28

  “I don’t recognize him, do you?”

  Reed took his eyes off the road and glanced at the composite sketch Jay held up.

  “No.”

  “And I’ve got a memory for faces,” Jay added.

  The Ann Arbor PD had sent the file, and Reed had grabbed it off the printer on his way out the door. He and Jay were on the way to interview Edward Gantz, who might be able to either refute or corroborate the Ian Phelps theory.

  “Even if all these murders are connected, this sketch could be unrelated,” Jay said. “This could just be some guy who happened to be seen loitering around this girl’s place the day before she got killed. You know, wrong place and wrong time, and now everyone’s searching for someone who looks nothing like the killer.”

  “It happens.”

  Which was why Reed always took eyewitness accounts with a grain of salt. People didn’t always remember things accurately, and even if they did, what they remembered might have nothing to do with the crime.

  Reed swung into a gas station and pulled his truck up to a pump. Jay got out, sliding the composite sketch inside the file folder and tossing it onto the seat.

  “I need something to eat,” Jay said. “Want anything?”

  “Black coffee.”

  “You got it.”

  Reed shoved the nozzle into the gas tank. He watched the numbers on the pump scroll and tried to swallow down his bitterness. He’d wanted to have it out with Hall, and he would have if he didn’t have so much goddamn work to do. But Reed couldn’t do anything if he got canned, and he could tell Hall was right on the brink.

  Reed clenched his teeth and counted to ten. It was a technique he used to get his temper under control, and typically it worked, but not today. Everything about this day had sucked from the moment Laney had slipped out of bed.

  Reed went over his strategy with Gantz. If the kid had, in fact, been the one to help Laney break into the FBI’s database, then he was going to be touchy about it, especially when talking to a cop. So Reed needed to be careful. But he also needed the guy’s statement, because Reed was convinced the timing of the shooting was no coincidence. Gantz had reached out to Laney to tell her he’d discovered something important, and just hours later he’d been gunned down, probably by someone who wanted to prevent him from sharing whatever he’d found.

  So the big question was, had Gantz seen the shooter?

  Reed finished fueling up and got back behind the wheel as a call came in from the Delphi Center.

  “It’s Mia Voss. Sorry to interrupt your weekend, but I finished the rest of your evidence.”

  “The duct tape?” Reed’s pulse picked up.

  “That’s right. We have a hit.”

  Reed sat back and let that sink in.

  “I always like working on duct tape, and this is why,” she said. “Even the most meticulous assailants will inadvertently deposit skin cells or hair. Some people use their teeth to tear it, which leaves behind saliva.”

  “He tore it with his teeth?” Reed couldn’t hide his disbelief. This UNSUB had been so careful, which was why Reed was having trouble believing he’d left bloody evidence sitting in his car on a public street.

  “Actually, I don’t think so. I didn’t recover any DNA except the victim’s on the tape’s torn edges,” she said. “But the sides of the tape are a different story. Picture a new roll of duct tape. It tends to be sticky on the sides, especially if it’s kept stored in a warm environment, such as a garage, and people tend to deposit skin cells when they’re handling it casually. Therefore, even if they wear gloves while actually committing the crime,
there may be skin cells present from other instances in which they picked up the tape roll.”

  “So he’s in the database,” Reed said, clutching the phone.

  “Not exactly. His DNA—and I can confirm it’s a man—is in the database. The forensic index, to be precise. That means it was recovered from another crime scene, not collected from an arrestee. So we don’t yet have an ID on it, we simply know that this comparison sample comes from a homicide scene.”

  “Let me guess. Michigan?” Reed glanced at the convenience store. Where the hell was Jay? They needed to get on this.

  “How did you know?” Mia asked.

  “We turned up a connection.”

  “Well, you’re right. This happened in Ann Arbor. The victim was nineteen years old. Holly Petrusky.”

  “That’s her.”

  “They found his DNA under her fingernails, so possibly she scratched him during the struggle.”

  “And this evidence is definitive?”

  “As definitive as it gets. I had a colleague verify the results independently, which is why it took so long.”

  “This is a big help. If you wouldn’t mind—”

  “I’m sending this as we speak,” she said. “Take a look at your email.”

  Reed got off the phone and reached for the file, casting an impatient look at the store. They needed to move on this. They could get a DNA sample from Phelps. If he wouldn’t give one voluntarily, Reed could use the Coke can he’d set aside earlier. Depending on what the tests showed, they could either eliminate Phelps as a suspect or move forward full speed.

  Jay opened the door and hopped into the truck as Reed flipped through the file again.

  “What’s up?” Jay asked, tearing open a pack of beef jerky.

  “We’ve got the perp’s DNA from the duct tape used with April Abrams. It matches un-ID’d DNA recovered from the Holly Petrusky case up in Michigan.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “I’m serious.”

  Reed found the sketch and pulled it out again. “That sketch looks nothing like Ian Phelps,” Jay pointed out.

  “I know.”

  Reed flipped to the interview with the witness who’d later sat down with a police sketch artist. He read through the Q and A, searching for any further details about this supposed suspect. Had the witness noticed anything else unusual that day, besides this man loitering around the victim’s house? Had he noticed a vehicle, maybe a forest-green Volkswagen? Reed skimmed through the notes, but there was no mention of a car. He glanced at the top of the report, where it listed the witness’s info.