“How’s it going?” asked McGaven, followed closely by Cisco. The dog had been following him around since early morning—his canine shadow.
“Better than expected,” she replied.
McGaven stood in the doorway, his height making the opening appear smaller than it actually was. He studied the points that Katie had highlighted. “You still think Terrance Price had something to do with it?” he asked.
Katie stepped down from the ladder. She wasn’t sure she wanted to discuss her thoughts about the case until there was solid corroborating evidence to support her theory. “Too many things point to his involvement.”
“Such as?”
“He claimed to have seen Chelsea the day she disappeared—he described in detail what she wore that day. Changed his statement only when he was pressed. Conveniently killed himself less than twenty-four hours after Chelsea was found. There were pieces of lumber on the property that could’ve been used to make those coffins.”
“When you put it like that, I would say there’s a definite possibility that he could’ve been the killer.”
“I don’t think he was the killer—just the helper,” she said. “The third victim was killed and dumped after Price’s death, according to the autopsy report.”
“So now the killer is lost without his partner? Is that why he was so quick to leave another body?”
“As I said, there are many things that raise questions.” Katie folded the ladder and leaned it against the wall. “I believe Templeton closed the case on Price too early in the first investigation. He wrote him off as mentally ill, which may be true, but he seemed to be getting his life together out at the Haven farm.”
“And,” put in McGaven, “we can’t forget what happened when we went back to the barn.”
“Any potential evidence there is now gone forever.” Katie frowned and thought about all the things they could’ve searched for and sent to the lab to test and compare.
“Okay, what if we took Price completely out of the scenario? What would we have?” McGaven suggested.
Katie smiled. “I like the way you think.” She stepped back into the middle of the room to study her lists. It was a good question, so she deliberated carefully. “Okay, there are still some unanswered questions for the Darren boys.”
“I assume you’re talking about Malcolm.”
“Actually, there were some red flags over Rick,” she said. “He’s calculating. That calmness you see is a cover. His arms were tensed the entire time I spoke with him, and he kept making fists. A sign of deep agitation—maybe unresolved issues and possibly violence. My first impression is that he’s disciplined, highly intelligent, and knows how to manipulate.”
“But he’s the sane one.”
“I realize you know them from disturbance calls, but what do you really know about them? I would love to have a search warrant for their place, but to search for what is the question. Tools to make a coffin, some fabric, photos of young girls, anything.” She sighed. “There’s nothing solid to go on except theories. It’s so frustrating.”
McGaven seemed to be thinking back to interactions the police had had with the brothers.
Katie continued. “Neither one of them has a solid alibi for the day Chelsea disappeared, and they definitely know their way around construction activities, like building a coffin.”
She fetched her laptop and turned it on. She waited a moment before pulling up photographs from the forensic division.
McGaven made himself comfortable in a chair in the corner. “So how do we move forward? How do we link the murders? Especially since most cases like this point to those closest to the child.”
“More than eighty percent of the time,” she said matter-of-factly. “That’s true, but there are always exceptions to the general investigative rule. To be a good investigator, you must remain objective and not get tunnel vision on one suspect.” She sighed. “And you’re right, we have to find linkage between the victims.”
McGaven raised his eyebrows, most likely wondering how they would do that.
Reading some notes that had been sent over from Templeton’s camp, she said, “The next-door neighbors, the Stanleys, were deceitful, but they were both ruled out. I believe that’s most likely correct. My gut tells me that Detective Templeton is building some type of circumstantial case to clear these homicides.”
“Also known as indirect evidence, used to infer something based on a series of facts separate from the fact the argument is trying to prove,” said McGaven, almost as if he was reading from the textbook.
“Wow, someone retained information from their criminal-justice classes.”
“It’s a curse. Most of the time I remember useless things—that’s what people say.”
“Who cares what those kind of people think.”
“She’s absolutely correct,” said Blackburn, standing at the doorway holding a remote control in his hand.
Katie was startled at first. She had forgotten that the forensic supervisor was still at the house. She had noticed that he had a certain look about him when he was in new or unusual situations, quickly scouring his surroundings and making sure that he was in a position where he could observe everything around him with ease.
“From what I see,” he said, “you’re going to need more than interviews and circumstantial evidence.”
“We need forensic evidence that points to the killer,” said Katie. She turned her attention to what was in Blackburn’s hand. “What’s that?” she asked curiously.
“This,” he held it up for them both to see, “is the remote for your security system. You’ll have the same access on your cell phone once you download the app.”
“Fantastic. Are you going to give me a tour?”
“Of course.”
McGaven got to his feet and headed eagerly to the doorway. “Let’s check it out.”
Cisco leapt up too; he didn’t want to be left out. He trotted behind McGaven, keeping his ears and senses alert.
Katie smiled and followed the men to the front door.
“Okay,” began Blackburn. He pointed to a small panel on the wall. “It’s pretty self-explanatory. When you want to set the alarm, punch in a hashtag and your four-digit code. You do the same when you enter the house to turn it off or reset it.”
“Sounds easy enough,” said Katie. She had used security systems like that before and found them straightforward.
“Okay, now here’s the cool part,” he said.
Katie and McGaven waited.
He punched in a couple of numbers on the remote and he was able to show the views from two cameras on the property from a small viewer. The footage was in black and white, but it was clear in resolution.
Katie retrieved her phone and began to download the relevant app. After a few minutes, she had it loaded up.
“Now you need to pick four numbers for your code,” Blackburn said.
She thought about it; she didn’t want it to be easy for someone else to figure out. It came to her quickly: 0319, the month and day of her deployment.
“Looks like you’re all set,” the forensic supervisor said.
“Thank you so much.”
“It’s been my pleasure.”
McGaven glanced at his watch. “I need to go home and get some things done before shift.”
“Go, everyone, go. I’m not a princess in my castle here, you know,” Katie laughed. “Now I have a security system, like Cisco wasn’t already enough.”
The dog barked.
“There should be something back at the lab for your case,” Blackburn said. “You can drop by tomorrow afternoon and I’ll make sure I have it all ready for you.”
“Okay,” she said.
She watched as the men left; both of them seemed reluctant to go. She assumed her uncle had made them swear to make sure the house was as safe as any high-security prison.
After waving goodbye, she decided to set the alarm. It was just her and Cisco again. And as much as the do
g loved the two men, he seemed content to be with just Katie.
Sitting down on the couch with a notebook on her lap, she decided to run the case from the beginning. It would be too easy to assume that the information she needed hadn’t materialized yet. Too high-minded. In fact, she thought there were too many clues, too much information, and too many statements, which made a muddled mess. She couldn’t see through it clearly. Her cop instincts fired a warning shot over her head, urging her to figure out what she was missing.
Cisco grumbled and scooted himself closer to her, putting his head on her lap.
“Cisco, I can’t write when your head is in the way.”
The dog sighed and moved a couple of inches.
She listed everything that had happened from the first day she began searching for Chelsea. As with the battlefield, her memories of defining moments came alive with distinct smells and visions. This time it was the gravesite.
The hand-made coffins.
The positioning of the girls, perfectly posed.
The teddy bears.
The professionally tied bows.
No trace evidence.
Behavioral evidence?
There was a lack of viable evidence for a roadmap to the killer. In the way an obsessive-compulsive personality type would approach the case, she ran the investigation backwards to the beginning—and vice versa. She saw the faces of the three little girls in their final resting positions, the hanging body of Terrance Price, her patrol car blown up, the barn inferno, the warning messages—and still nothing clicked.
Why was the killer making it personal?
Why would he direct the messages just at her and not Detective Templeton as well?
She ran through the evidence from the forensic lab and double-checked her emails and Templeton’s reports. She formulated some questions for John Blackburn tomorrow, but wasn’t hopeful that they would render anything substantial.
Combing through interviews and reports, she concluded the physical evidence that stood out most was the coffin and the teddy bears. The behavioral evidence was the method and motivation.
She kept pushing the evidence and re-reading the notes.
Soon her focus crashed as her vision faded, and she fell asleep.
Thirty-Nine
Katie watched the image on the computer monitor as it was magnified four hundred times. The pictures of interest looked like nothing more than burned-away timber pieces with spiky features. The results from the scanning electron microscope revealed that the impression evidence from her front door couldn’t help identify the tool used. The frame and lock were too badly damaged, as if someone had intentionally made a mess so that it couldn’t be traced.
She sighed and realized that the evidence from her house wasn’t going to lead to any type of breakthrough.
“I know I could have just told you in a report, but I wanted you to see the actual results in case you have any questions,” said Blackburn as he studied her.
She frowned and felt her stomach drop in disappointment, not because the evidence was unusable, but because the entire case weighed even heavier on her conscience. She dreaded the eventual news that there was another body posed somewhere for the police to discover. The Matthews girl still hadn’t been found and the third girl hadn’t been identified yet.
“Katie?” said Blackburn. He had been talking, but she was lost in her own thoughts.
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. It’s just this case has hit me hard. Excuse my momentary lapse.” She forced a smile.
Blackburn moved closer to her. “I’ve been doing this job for about eight years. I’ve worked with many detectives, both in-house and from various jurisdictions.”
“Your point?” she said.
“My point is that I can tell the difference between competent detectives and detectives just going through the motions not clear about what they’re looking for, much less what direction they should take.” He took an additional moment to look Katie in the eye in order to make his point.
Katie knew he was telling the truth, but the intensity between them was almost too much to bear. She felt her face ignite with heat. “Thank you, I appreciate that.” She moved away from him.
“Hi, sorry I’m late,” announced McGaven breathlessly. It seemed he might have run all the way to the lab.
“Good morning,” Katie managed to say.
“Did I miss anything?” he asked eagerly.
“Unfortunately, no,” said Katie, feeling the warmth dissipate from her face.
Blackburn moved to the other side of the room. “There were no fingerprints apart from those belonging to Katie and her uncle. Sheriff Scott’s fingerprints were around the door frame and at a high level. And many areas were completely clean of any prints.”
“Well, he did quite a bit of work with the water leakage. That’s probably why some areas were clear,” she said.
“I suppose,” Blackburn replied. “That dish towel you found at the crime scene was indeed soaked in chloroform. It was from an old sample.”
“Meaning?”
“Chloroform is not available to the average consumer; in fact, it’s been banned since the seventies because it eventually turns into a carcinogen, especially when it’s exposed to oxygen. I believe it’s available in small doses to the pharmaceutical industry, and it is used as a solvent in pesticides and dyes.”
“So are you saying that the killer had it stored for a long time?” she asked.
“It would appear so.” Blackburn went on, “The two footprints at your house and the ones at the gravesites are all a man’s size twelve. It’s not an average size, but most men who are six feet tall or more wear a twelve.”
“Anything else?” she said. “What about the message on my wall? Anything interesting or potentially usable?”
“I sent a photo of it to a friend of mine who is a handwriting-analysis expert, to see if she could shed any light on it. She has worked some high-profile cases with interesting results.”
“Could she tell if it was a psychopath?” asked McGaven, his eyes wide with intense interest.
“Not exactly,” began Blackburn. It was difficult to read his expression because of his intense demeanor. “I forwarded the report to you, but I can sum it up. The message was written by a man, thirties to possibly fifties in age, and he always writes in block letters. From the square lettering she could tell that he was trained in some type of technical school, like as an electrician, or in auto repair, carpentry, perhaps even computer-programming work.”
“That doesn’t really narrow it down,” Katie said.
“Fifty percent minus anyone who doesn’t wear a size twelve,” added McGaven, trying to lighten the mood.
“One interesting thing is that the author had difficulty forming his block letters in the words ‘you’ and ‘never’. I don’t know if that will mean anything to you.”
There was a momentary silence.
“It doesn’t right now, but who knows, it may help when we have a solid suspect,” said Katie.
“What about Cisco’s saliva?” McGaven asked.
“It’s inconclusive right now due to the dilution, but I’m expanding the testing. There’s still the chance of finding something significant, but then again, it won’t help until we have something or someone to compare it to.”
“Thank you for rushing these tests. I was just hoping for something more,” Katie said. She turned to leave.
Blackburn stopped her. “I have your cell number and I’ll text you anything new as soon as it becomes available.”
She nodded and left the room with McGaven.
* * *
As they climbed into the SUV, Katie thought about her house and the two messages. At this point, she couldn’t definitively connect the person who’d committed the homicides with the person at her house. It was a threat towards her only and it would be circumstantial evidence at best.
“You should be flattered,” said McGaven.
“What?”
He laughed. “For all of your smarts, you’re certainly dense.”
“If you’re trying to cheer me up…”
“No, Detective Scott. If you couldn’t see that John Blackburn seems to fancy you, there’s no hope for you at all,” he chuckled.
Katie stared at the deputy. She tried hard not to let her personal feelings show, not wanting more gossip about her to filter through the department.
“C’mon, when I walked in, I thought I was on a soap-opera set.”
“You’re a riot, McGaven,” she said.
“You see, guys do these subtle little things when they like someone.”
“Like?” She was interested in hearing a man’s perspective.
“Like wanting to get closer. Maybe to smell her hair or see if she gently touches them in passing. C’mon, Detective, don’t play dumb. Women have all the power and you know it.” He smiled, watching Katie’s restrained reaction.
Katie ignored him and began looking through her notes. “We have several places to hit today and I want to have another chat with the Darren brothers. Are you ready? Can you behave?”
McGaven let out a loud sigh. “Bring it on…”
Forty
Katie’s head pounded with a familiar pain that always appeared when she was faced with increasing stress—and these cases would definitely qualify as stressful. A tightness in her chest promised an encroaching anxiety attack, but she stayed focused and in the moment. It helped to have McGaven with her to take her mind off unnecessary things. He had lightened up and she had proved to him that she was worthy of being a cop. His personality and intelligence surprised her the more she got to know him.
She had wanted to pay a visit to the Darren brothers, but they weren’t at home and had left a handwritten note in block capitals telling people that they were closed for the day. She quickly retrieved her cell phone and took a photo of the sign, then sent it to Blackburn with a message that read: Could this be the author of the message on my wall?
Little Girls Sleeping: An absolutely gripping crime thriller Page 20