by Mary Burton
“How long were you married?”
“Ten years.”
“I can imagine you standing before a gilded altar in a church filled with stained-glass windows and hundreds of important people.” She didn’t like the image.
“It was quite the society affair.”
She liked John Adler a lot, and if she were going to trust someone now, it would be him. She stared at the spoon before she said, “So, I received flowers today. They were delivered to my office. No note. My boss has no idea who sent them.”
He scanned the room, and his tone sharpened when he spoke, “Where are they?”
“I gave them to the nurses. Someone also sent me flowers the night of my lecture. I gave those away to a student. I don’t know anyone who would send me flowers.”
He was silent.
With him she was able to confess, “They gave me the creeps. Who would have thought such a pretty and perfect arrangement of white tulips would make me want to jump out of my skin.”
“The other flowers were also white tulips?” he said.
“Yes. Does that mean anything?”
“I’m not sure.” His expression said otherwise. He was concerned but seemed to be holding back his thoughts for her sake. “Was there a card?”
“Susan said there wasn’t.” She stabbed her spoon in the sorbet and set it on the table beside her. “I’m scared. I can’t stop looking for Gina, but I am terrified.”
Adler looked her in the eye. “You’re not in this alone, Kaitlin. I’ve got your back.”
She believed him, and that calmed some of the fears enough for her to say, “I had a dream just a few minutes ago. I woke to the alarm in the hallway. I was so terrified. I was drenched in sweat.”
“Tell me about the dream.”
“It was the moment I was stabbed. My attacker said, ‘I am coming back for you. You deserve to be punished.’”
Adler leaned forward. His eyes were intent, but his voice was calm. “What do you remember about him?”
“I never saw his face.”
“His voice? A mark on his hands? A smell?”
She drew in a breath. “The voice was muffled. A whisper. He sounded angry and frustrated, like I’d screwed up his plans.” She tried to relax her clenched fists. “His hands were smooth. His breath smelled of peppermint.”
“That’s more than you first recalled.”
“My head is finally clearing.”
“Did anything about this man’s voice remind you of the man that took Gina?”
A swell of emotion tightened her voice. “No. I know it’s been fourteen years, but nothing about this guy made me think of Gina’s kidnapper. I know this guy wasn’t on the road that night.”
“Who would care about this case as much as you now?”
“Gina and I don’t have any family left to speak of, but her face was in the news so much fourteen years ago. Even last year a reporter did a story about her unsolved case.”
“Someone might see themselves as Gina’s champion.”
“And he’s come back for all the girls on the road with her that last night. Jennifer is dead. Erika’s missing. And I’m stabbed.” She felt vulnerable and fought a rush of tears.
“He’s not going to hurt you,” Adler said.
“I’ve survived years of self-destructive behavior. Now I’m faced with a real threat, and I’m afraid of dying. How’s that for a turnaround?”
“It’s healthy. And I’m going to keep you safe.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I’m very good at what I do.”
She searched his face for any sign that he was playing her. “I’m going to have to believe you, Detective Adler. You’re all I’ve got right now.”
A grin tugged at the edge of his lips as he set his sorbet on the side table next to hers. “I met with Ashley Ralston.”
She sensed he didn’t share his thoughts easily either. “I remember her. She’s four years older than me.”
“What do you remember about her?”
“When I saw her at a July Fourth party, she had a bruise on her cheek. I can’t remember the reason she gave then, but I didn’t question it.”
“You think Derek hit her?”
“I can’t say for sure. But they were dating at the time.”
“What about Hayward? Was he around?”
“He was at that party and several others. He was around a lot that summer.”
“How tight were you with Hayward?” he asked.
“There was a time when I thought he was the answer to all the pain I carried after my brother’s death. For a brief time I forgot about all the guilt and suffering and had fun.” She plucked at a thread on her blanket. “But his smiles hid a lot of darkness.”
“When did you two stop dating?”
“Right after that July Fourth party in 2004.”
“Why’d you break it off?”
“He lost his temper, and he hit me.”
Adler didn’t comment, but a muscle pulsed in his jaw. “Did he hurt any other girls?”
“I’m sure he did. He showed no remorse when he struck me.”
Fury smoldered in his eyes. “He will spend the rest of his life behind bars.”
“What about his deal?”
“I’ll find a loophole. When do you get discharged?”
“Thursday morning.”
“You have a ride and a brush?”
She smiled, reminding herself that relying on him too much was a slippery slope. “Got them both covered,” she lied.
INTERVIEW FILE #18
MORE FRIENDS—NADINE SPENCER
Friday, March 2, 2018; 2:00 p.m.
Nadine Spencer touches the microphone that’s clipped to her lapel and glances nervously toward me. “This seems weird.”
I sit in the chair across from the tall, big-boned woman. Her cheeks are a little too pink and her eyelids too blue for her pale skin. She is dressed in an expensive white silk blouse and slacks that tug at her pudgy frame in all the wrong places. Hair dyed-blond hair skims her shoulders, and though the color is flattering, an overabundance of spray leaves her coif stiff and unnatural.
“Thank you for seeing me.”
“Why wouldn’t I? God, after that night. The senior class is bonded forever.” She shakes her head. “I was supposed be there with you, but I had a date with Randy Hayward.”
“Randy? I didn’t realize you two were close.”
“Not exactly close. And honestly, I was relieved when the date ended. He was weird that night.”
“How so?”
“Wired. Angry. Physical.” She rubs her hand over her arm as if soothing an old wound. “Now that I know he was a drug addict, it makes sense.”
“Did he ever talk about Gina?”
“Sure. He asked me if she still had her v-card.” Nadine sits silent for a moment. “That was odd, even for Randy.”
“Knowing Gina, what do you think happened to her?”
Nadine folds a small sticky note and creases the edges until the paper frays. “I think Gina’s temper is what got her.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I believe whoever took her thought he had a sweet, gentle girl. But she was a strong athlete who was a soccer goalie. I bet she landed a good kick or two and she hurt the guy. That set him off, and he killed her.” She shakes her head. “Breaks my heart to think about all the damage done by one sick person. My daddy used to say fear and self-pity don’t mend broken hearts. He said anger does because it motivates us to do the impossible.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tuesday, March 20, 2018; 9:00 a.m.
A cold front had blown into Richmond, chasing away any hint of spring they’d enjoyed a few days ago. It was thirty degrees when Adler arrived at the Main Street Station office complex.
Turning up the collar of his overcoat, he pushed into the marble lobby. A check of the directory told him Davenport was on the third floor. He rode the elevator and followed the signs to a
n open doorway at the end of the hall. There was no one at the receptionist desk, and the door behind it was closed. This gave him a moment to study the room’s rich Oriental carpet, the three overstuffed waiting chairs, and a stack of sleek magazines catering to the wealthy. He rapped his knuckles on the desk. “Hello.”
“Yes, I’m here.” The door opened to a man wearing dark pleated pants, a white collared shirt, and blue tie. He was in his midthirties, had sandy-brown hair, and looked like a former jock carrying an extra thirty pounds. After he took a good look at Adler, he reached for a suit jacket and pulled it on.
“I’m Tom Davenport.” He smiled and extended his hand.
Adler shook it and then reached for his badge. “I’m Detective John Adler.”
“Detective.” The smile waned. “What can I do for you?”
“Is there somewhere private we could talk?”
“Sure. The conference room.”
Adler followed Davenport, and when he closed the door, Adler said, “I’m working a murder case. Jennifer Ralston.”
“I heard about that. We went to high school together, but I haven’t seen her for several years. May I ask why you’re here?”
“Gina Mason’s name has come up several times during this investigation. You dated Gina, didn’t you?”
Davenport slid a hand into his pocket. “I did.”
“She broke up with you?”
“That’s right. And yes, I was pissed at the time, but looking back I can see she was right. A clean break made the best sense.”
“Looking back as you say, it had to hurt like hell.”
“Sure. But as I told the cops fourteen years ago, I wasn’t angry enough to hurt her. I loved her and was devastated when she vanished.” He rattled change in his pocket. “Did Kaitlin Roe send you? She wanted to interview me for some project, but I hung up on her.”
“No, but why hang up?”
“I don’t need any more of her manipulative bullshit.”
“How so?”
“She was trouble. Gina and I were doing great, and then Kaitlin moved in with the Masons. She brought so much chaos with her. Gina felt obligated to spend more time with her cousin. I even tried to help where I could, but I got pushed out.”
“How is that Kaitlin’s fault?”
“Gina and I were fine before her.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have left Gina that night when she needed help. And now Kaitlin has some fleeting idea she’s going to fix all this, now?”
“It sounds like you’re still mad.”
“Not at Gina. But sure, I didn’t and still don’t trust Kaitlin Roe.” He shook his head as he dropped his gaze to the floor. “I wish she’d been the one taken, not Gina.”
Davenport had known Jennifer, Erika, and Kaitlin, but Kaitlin had been certain she didn’t recognize her attacker’s voice. She’d spoken to Davenport recently, so she should have been able to identify him. “Did you know someone stabbed Kaitlin?”
His eyes widened with shock. “She’s dead?”
“No, she’ll recover.”
Davenport drew in what felt like a calculated breath.
“Where were you on Saturday afternoon?” Adler asked.
“With my wife and son.”
“And she can confirm this?”
“Yes, but why should she have to?” Davenport was growing angry.
“I’m just covering all the bases.”
“It sounds more like you think I’m a suspect. But then why shouldn’t you? Cops go for the low-hanging fruit, don’t they?” He sounded outraged, insulted, and afraid.
The original investigation had nearly cost him his future, and now he sounded scared this one would as well. “Should you be, Mr. Davenport?”
A bitter smile twisted his lips. “You cops raked me over the coals fourteen years ago. If you have any more questions, submit them to my lawyer.”
Adler had read nothing overtly threatening in the notes written to Jennifer. Now at the state forensic department, Adler would have the opportunity to discuss the handwriting with the technician in charge of the case.
Adler rode the elevator to the fifth floor and made his way down the hall. The glass walls offered a peek into the scientists’ workstations, which were equipped with high-powered microscopes designed to analyze everything from bullet striations to automobile paint chips. Other work zones were outfitted with powerful computers built to analyze drug toxicity, DNA, and any other evidence left at the scene of a crime.
Down the hallway at a lone door, he pressed the intercom button and identified himself. The door latch opened with a click, and he pushed through the secured entrance to find Dana Tipton sitting at her desk peering into a microscope. A white lab coat covered her short frame, and her curly hair was twisted into a tight knot, accentuating large dark-rimmed glasses and sharp green eyes. She rose to shake his hand. “Detective Adler.”
“Dana, thanks for seeing me. I understand you had a chance to look at the notes from the Ralston homicide.”
“I did. I went through them late yesterday.” She carried a file to a light table. She spread out the five notes and clicked on the light. “I checked all for fingerprints. I was able to pull a partial print from the fifth note. It’s a right thumb. But there aren’t enough indicators to make a definitive identification.”
“How many?” Fingerprints had dozens of characteristics, but to make a conclusive identification, the technician needed to match at least six traits.
“I identified four indicators within the print. But I did submit the partial to AFIS. We’ll see what pops.” The Automated Fingerprint Identification System was administered by state police throughout the country and contained millions of criminal and civilian prints. If the owner of this fingerprint had a record or ever worked for the government, it was in the system.
“Okay. Anything else you can tell me?”
She adjusted her glasses. “I do have some ideas about the author.”
Handwriting analysis wasn’t an exact science, but it still could help. “Let’s have it.”
“Every letter begins with ‘My Girl.’ ‘My Girl, you’re still a beautiful woman. My Girl, would you like a ride to work?’ At first glance, the words could be considered an endearment, but ‘My Girl’ is written in bolder letters than the others. The author pressed down much harder when he wrote those words.”
“He’s angry.”
“He’s certainly making a point when he calls her ‘My Girl.’”
“He considers her a child? Lesser than himself, perhaps?”
“Maybe. Or she’s a possession.” She adjusted her glasses again. “The text suggests their connection goes way back. ‘My Girl, remember that last summer by the river?’”
“He’s known her a long time, or he’s stalked her for a long time. What’re the chances it’s a woman?”
She shrugged. “Given the shapes of the letters and the nature of the crime? Slim to none.”
“What else?”
“The handwriting is deliberate and written with care. Note how well formed and neat the letters are.”
“Remind you of an engineer?”
“A drafter’s style exhibits a more specific block style, which I don’t see here. These letters also slant to the right, suggesting he’s left-handed.”
“Could all this have been written deliberately?”
“Sure.” She pointed. “The last note is different than the others. ‘My Girl, what is your biggest regret?’ It appears to have been written quickly, and the letter formations are slightly different than those in the first four. Basically, he’s showing more of himself here whether he realizes it or not.”
“Any indication of when it was written?”
“Unfortunately, no. But if you find this guy, and you can get a handwriting sample, I can match it, Detective.”
Forensic analysis was great at supporting an arrest in court, but when it came to finding a killer, old-fashioned detective work ran circles around the science. In the fir
st few critical days after a murder, every hour counted. “There’s a heart drawn at the bottom of each page.”
She nodded. “It’s not symmetrical, but it also doesn’t feel casually drawn to me. And because it appears in each note, it has meaning to him. I understand the flowers under the victim’s bed were arranged in the shape of a heart.”
“Correct. Anything else?”
“The author chose a nice paper stock. White vellum. Not cheap. Makes me think it’s the second page of more formal stationary.”
“A brand used by one of a million offices?”
“I would say professional offices.”
“What else can you tell me about the author?”
“I’m no profiler, Detective. And some in law enforcement see graphology as one step above witchcraft.”
“Understood. Just looking for general impressions that will help narrow down the author.”
She paused over the third note. “The overall shape of the letters is smaller in scale. People who write smaller tend to be shy and more introverted. The spacing between the words is large, suggesting he likes his space. The edges are sharp, meaning he’s aggressive and assertive.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all I’ve got for now.”
“Have the techs had a chance to examine Erika Crowley’s car?”
“We are pulling prints, and I know multiple dark-hair samples have been found. Mrs. Crowley had blond hair, so we know they don’t belong to her. We did find samples of blond hair in the trunk as well as urine.”
“He put her in the trunk.”
“That’s my guess. I can tell you the GPS in her car tracked the vehicle path. It went directly from the yoga studio to the gas station on Route 1. A forensic technician did take several tire casts beside the vehicle.”
“He switched cars.”
“Most likely.”
“Thanks, Dana.”
As he left the offices his phone rang. It was Quinn.
“I just received a call from a local vet. A woman found a Siamese stray and dropped it off at the vet. He checked for a chip.”
“It’s Jennifer Ralston’s cat?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Where was the cat found?”
“Chesterfield County near Hull Street and Courthouse Road.”