“Who’s we?”
“The task force.”
“You and the pastor?”
“Sir?”
“No, I’m sorry.” He shook his head and lowered his eyes in a gesture of contrition. Very occasionally, Stamps did this—breaking his neutrality to toss a barb, but then quickly backing off and apologizing, as if it had just slipped out involuntarily, like a stomach growl. It was rare enough to always throw her off.
“Hold on,” he said, swiveling his executive chair away from her. “Let me check something here first. Just a second.”
Hunter waited, glancing at the computer screen on the cabinet behind his desk. He seemed to be scrolling through his e-mails. “Are you hearing me, sir?” she said. “We’re dealing with a serial killer.”
“Here we go.” He hit several keys in quick succession. “Hold your calling cards for a second, Hunter, okay? We just got an ID a few minutes ago.”
“Sir?”
“On Jane Doe. We’ve just ID’d her.”
Chapter 28
WEARING HIS FIXED, unfathomable expression, State’s Attorney Wendell Stamps slowly retrieved a sheet of paper from his printer and seemed to be studying it.
“Here we go,” he said at last. “Came in as a tip to the sheriff’s office less than an hour ago. He just called as I was driving over here. You should be receiving a photo by e-mail momentarily.”
He handed the paper to her and Hunter looked: it was the image of a woman’s face. Clearly the woman from the church, although she appeared younger. Smiling slightly. Steady eyes. Still alive. A pleasant face.
“That’s her, isn’t it?” Stamps said, seated again.
Hunter read the identifying information below the picture.
The woman’s name was Kwan Park.
Age thirty-two. Almost exactly one year older than Hunter.
Resident of Sharonville, Ohio.
“Yes?”
Hunter took a breath and sighed, reminding herself that this was still her investigation. “Yes,” she said. “Okay. We’ll need a briefing with the task force, then. Have local officials contacted her next of kin?”
“You’ll have to follow up with Clay on that. Apparently, there’s some problem there that’s delaying the release of information.”
“What problem?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to follow up with Clay on that,” he said again.
Hunter rose to leave, so enraged she felt the blood rush to her face. Stamps stood, too, and his frown seemed to become a smile. As if he could see that the game was changing in his favor.
OVER THE NEXT fifty minutes Hunter, Shipman, and Fischer assembled a rudimentary profile of Jane Doe, now identified as Kwan Park. They spoke with police detectives in Ohio, the manager of the convenience store where Park worked, three coworkers, and two neighbors. No one, it seemed, really knew Kwan Park. She was described by acquaintances as polite but aloof, almost a phantom presence in her neighborhood and at the store, a woman with no real friends, who’d left her family in Korea seven or eight years earlier.
Stamps forwarded a copy of the voice-mail tip that had been recorded on the sheriff’s nonemergency line. Male voice, with a slightly Southern accent: “I wonder if the woman found in the church is the same woman who worked at a convenience store in Sharonville, Ohio. If so, her name would be Kwan Park.’ ”
He spelled it.
“Trace?”
“Phone company’s on it. Clint Fogg’s following up,” the state’s attorney said.
It was, at first, difficult for Hunter to stay focused on Kwan Park, knowing about the muddy boots and the .22 caliber handgun found in Jackson Pynne’s apartment and what she’d just learned about the Virginia and Delaware Psalm verses—information that appeared to be of little interest to the state’s attorney. For now, they seemed separate narratives; although, of course, they had to be connected.
But all the same, Hunter didn’t want the details of the serial murders to be shared yet with everyone on the task force. It was all right to compartmentalize, she decided. To stay focused on the Tidewater case until after the victim’s name was released to the public.
There was one detail in particular, though, that surprised her about Kwan Park. It surely would change the case in a way the state’s attorney didn’t see yet. Several minutes before the task force was scheduled to meet, she closed her door and called Pastor Luke Bowers.
It was something he needed to know.
SUNDAY WAS CHARLOTTE’S day off from writing, although she liked to work for an hour or two in the evening after they’d shared an early dinner, reviewing and editing what she had written the previous week.
After church, she dressed casually—in her old Georgetown sweats, usually—and often went on a long, early afternoon walk with Sneakers—sometimes all the way down the beach to Conners Point, where in summer the three-hundred-year-old Admiral’s Inn served giant lump-fin crab cakes and fried oyster fritters that were so delicious people would wait more than an hour to be seated.
Sneakers’s tongue always wagged from the side of his mouth after these walks and he trotted across the kitchen to his water bowl as if he had just crossed a desert.
Afterward, Luke and Charlotte shared the New York Times, spreading it over the living room floor, swapping sections and discussing articles. Then Charlotte went to the kitchen and into her nearly impenetrable “cooking zone,” as Luke thought of it, listening to classical music as she prepared dinner. Tonight they’d have baked tilapia filets crusted with almonds, cooked with Dijon mustard. Sneakers, whom she’d appointed her “food taster,” parked himself contentedly at Charlotte’s feet.
Luke was camped in the living room reading an article about Noam Chomsky when Charlotte came in with her laptop and plunked it in front of him; Sneakers trailed behind her with his head lowered.
“Did you see this?” she said. “They’re applauding you.”
“Who is?”
The Tidewater Times website had posted a story: PASTOR BINDS COMMUNITY. There was a blurry photo of Luke at the top—arms raised like a fundamentalist preacher, not really himself. Strange: he hadn’t seen a photographer in the church.
He read:
Pastor Luke Bowers gave reassurance this morning to a community still in shock over the unexplained murder of the “mystery woman” discovered Tuesday morning at Tidewater Methodist Church.
Bowers, who discovered the woman in a pew, urged the overflow crowd Sunday morning to use this tragic event to draw closer together as a community.
Citing the many unanswered questions surrounding the killing, Pastor Bowers said, “As we wait for answers, let’s take this opportunity to deepen our capacity for patience, faith, and understanding. And to deepen our commitment to this community, to our families, and to one another.”
Police, meanwhile, continue to pursue leads but are still unable to identify the woman or determine why she was at the church.
He stopped reading as the phone rang. Charlotte picked up in the kitchen. Sneakers languidly followed her back in, in case it was for him.
“You,” she said, handing over the phone. She didn’t have to say who it was. Luke could see by her pinched expression.
“We have an ID!” Amy Hunter said.
“On?”
“Jane Doe. Name, background, the whole nine yards. It’s all going to be released to the media in about an hour.”
“Okay,” Luke said. He was surprised that she’d be calling him, but listened with interest as she breathlessly relayed the known details about Kwan Park.
“And here’s the thing,” she said. “You were right about Jackson Pynne. He did know her.”
“He did.”
“Yes, he was a co-owner of the convenience store where Kwan Park worked. In Ohio. He sold his interest last
year. Right about the time she started there, apparently. It’s possible Jackson Pynne may have even been the one who hired her.”
“Really.”
“Yeah, I just wanted you to know. That part’s not for public consumption yet.”
Luke blinked at the darkening afternoon sky. He couldn’t picture Jackson owning a convenience store.
“We’re having a press briefing on the woman’s identity at five,” Hunter said. “I’ll have more later.”
Both Charlotte and Sneakers were staring as Luke walked back into the kitchen, the phone in one hand, Charlotte’s laptop computer in the other. He placed the phone in the cradle, feeling stunned. Wondering again if he’d been wrong about Jackson Pynne.
“I think they’re going to need to update this story,” he said, handing the lap back to Charlotte.
Chapter 29
BY THE TIME the Homicide Task Force gathered around the conference room table at four-fifteen, the skies were swollen with snow clouds. The forecast now was four to six inches, beginning early in the evening as flurries and continuing through the night, with much of it expected to melt away the next afternoon.
There were eight people in the conference room this time, besides Hunter. State’s Attorney Wendell Stamps sat at the head of the table. Also present were state police homicide detectives Ben Shipman and Sonny Fischer; Sheriff’s Deputy Barry Stilfork; the sheriff’s public information officer, Kirsten Sparks; Tidewater Police Chief Arthur Law, an honorary member of the task force; and state’s attorney investigator Clinton Fogg. Hunter’s boss, Henry Moore, was also in the room—still solidly but quietly supportive.
“Okay,” Hunter said. “We have an ID now on Jane Doe. Her name is Kwan Park. K-W-A-N. P-A-R-K. She lived in Sharonville, Ohio, a suburb of Cincinnati, for the past five months.”
Hunter went on, careful about what she said and how she answered questions. She wanted this to be about the victim, she’d decided, not a serial killer. Not yet. Not in this company. Saying anything in front of Barry Stilfork was the same as saying it in front of the sheriff. That information wasn’t for this group, it was for the FBI. But in her own thoughts, Hunter was working through puzzles. Over the past several hours she’d begun looking at the case differently. Who were these four people who’d been killed, and what, if anything, connected them? Would knowing the identity of one now cast light on the identities of the others?
“Ms. Park worked as night manager at the Sharonville Quik Gas store since early October,” she said. “We’re still gathering information on her background prior to that.
“She was not reported as a missing person, evidently, because no one considered her missing. She had told a coworker, a neighbor, and her supervisor a week before she was found that she was going to visit family in Korea for two months. She was supposedly driving to Cincinnati, with plans to fly to JFK. And from there, to Seoul, South Korea. Her coworkers assumed she had already left the country. So far we have no record of airline reservations in that name.
“Kwan Park was evidently a very private individual. She rented a three-bedroom house in a nice part of town. Drove a leased Mercedes C350. At this point the car’s unaccounted for. Her house, we’re told, was immaculate. Designer-furnished. Almost like she didn’t live there.
“We haven’t yet been able to locate family or any contacts in Korea. But we will,” Hunter said. “The contact names she gave her employer—so far, at least—do not check out. Again, there aren’t a lot of known details at this point about the woman’s personal life.
“And, we don’t know what she was doing in Maryland, either at Oyster Creek or at the church.”
Except, perhaps, for Jackson Pynne. Hunter wasn’t going to stress that, but she’d decided she would mention it. Otherwise it might look—later—like she was concealing something. She glanced at State’s Attorney Wendell Stamps before going on.
“There is one connection we know of with this county,” she said. “One of the former co-owners of the Quik Gas corporation has a summer rental property here. His name is Jackson Pynne. Some of you know the name, I’m sure.”
Several of those in the room exchanged looks.
“Is he a suspect?” asked Kirsten Sparks. Momentarily, she stopped chewing gum.
“No. Not at this time,” Hunter said. “We’re attempting to reach him. That is on the QT at this point, okay? His name should not be mentioned to the media or to anyone else until after we’ve located him.”
“So, is he considered a suspect?” Sparks asked again.
“It’s too early to label anyone a suspect,” Hunter said. “It’s really not a relevant question at this time. We’re still gathering information.”
She began to chew again. “What’s the nature of his involvement, then? Do we know?”
“Just as I said. He was a partner in the corporation, but sold out his interest last year. And, again, that’s not to be released.” She looked at Fisch and Ship. “He’s someone we need to find and talk with.”
“And she was manager of this store?” Sparks said.
“Night manager.”
Sparks kept watching Hunter as if they were the only two in the room. “How was she able to live so well if she was working in a convenience store? I don’t get that.”
“Or why was she working in a convenience store if she was able to live so well?” Hunter said. “We don’t know yet. It’s one of the things we’ll be looking at.”
“How much of this are we going to release, then?” Sparks asked.
She was looking at the state’s attorney now, not Amy Hunter.
“We announce that she’s been identified,” Hunter said. “Name, age, address. Place of employment. Make and license tag of the car. That’s all. Nothing else at this point.”
“Okay, but why was she in Tidewater?” Sparks said, again eyeing Hunter. “I mean, that’s what the media’s going to ask.”
“Yes. And as I just mentioned, we don’t have the answer yet. We have no comment on that.” Hunter was reminded then of the pastor’s sermon about questions and answers. What we want we often don’t get: simple answers to complicated questions.
“Except we believe she was probably en route to somewhere else. Right?” Sparks said.
“No,” Hunter said. “There’s nothing to indicate that. The car is missing. We issue the make and license tag of the car but that’s all. And that’s all we have for the media at this point.”
AFTER THE PRESS conference, Hunter retrieved the voice-mail messages from her office. She’d missed a call from the FBI in Washington just minutes earlier. But it wasn’t John Marcino, the profiler she had called. It was Special Investigator Dave Crowe, a man she’d worked with, and known, years earlier. Hunter felt a strange mix of apprehension and excitement as she prepared to call him back.
Chapter 30
SHE WAS WALKING through the late afternoon shadows, her collar up against the wind, when Agent Crowe came on the line.
He greeted her familiarly—“Hi, Hunter”—although it’d been probably seven years since they had spoken. “We just got the news,” he said, “on your Jane Doe ID. We’ll have a team coming out.”
“Really? Why?” He couldn’t know about the numbers, could he? The release had said nothing about Kwan Park being connected to other homicides. Did the FBI already know this? No, it was more likely that John Marcino had passed her message on to him. Although it was odd that Marcino hadn’t called first.
“I’ll fill you in when we get there,” Crowe said.
Hunter started her car, shifting to reverse. She’d known Dave Crowe during training at the FBI Academy in Quantico. Four years her senior, Crowe had been something of a mentor to her. They’d gone out a few times, to dinner and twice to the movies, although it was over a long period of time and she’d never considered it dating. They’d both been s
eeing other people at the time, which Crowe didn’t consider a problem. Hunter did. Ironically, it was her relationship that had broken off, not his. He’d gotten married to the woman he was dating then; as far as she knew, they were still together.
“You’re coming here with a team?”
“Right, I will be. I’ll call you once I get on the road.”
THE SNOW BEGAN just before dusk, flurries mixed with light rain at first, quickly becoming a veil of thick wet flakes. Hunter had printed out the four Psalms verses in fourteen-point type and tacked them to the corkboard above the desk in her study. Beside them was a map of the mid-Atlantic states, with notes pinned to the four locations where the killer had left calling cards.
Saturday, March 2, Central Virginia, John Doe
Tuesday, March 6, Bridge County, West Virginia, Jane Doe
Friday, March 10, Delaware, Jane Doe
Tuesday, March 14, Tidewater County, Jane Doe, now ID’d as Kwan Park
Would there be more? The pattern revealed an interval of four days between killings, although there hadn’t been one on March 18, at least not that they were aware of. It also told her that the killer appeared to be nocturnal. All of the killings had occurred in the middle of the night. Two or three o’clock in the morning, probably.
Hunter didn’t recognize the caller ID number when her phone rang shortly after seven, so she let the voice mail pick up. It was Crowe: “I’m on my way out now, Hunter. I thought maybe we should meet.”
“Hey,” she said, picking up.
“Hi, Hunter.”
She wasn’t sure how to address him: Dave? Agent Crowe? Or just Crowe? She’d never really gotten the knack of using last names.
“Look,” he said, “I don’t know if you’re in for the evening or what. But it might not be a bad idea if we met and talked about it tonight. This is all moving very quickly.”
“What’s moving quickly?”
“As I said earlier, I can’t get into it over the phone. Tomorrow’s probably going to be a zoo, though.”
The Psalmist Page 15