by Unknown
Walter was very good with computers. Using Photoshop, he had transferred the digital pictures he had taken of Hannah walking to her job and class and pasted her face on the various photographs he had found on the internet. The results were spectacular.
His favourite picture was the last one – Hannah holding their newborn son.
65
For the next three days, Darby searched through Hannah Givens’ cramped bedroom cluttered with notebooks and textbooks piled on a thrift-store desk. She hunted through Hannah’s receipts, pictures and scraps of paper jumbled with notes and ‘to-do’ lists. She examined Hannah’s Day Runner and interviewed Hannah’s two roommates, friends, classmates and professors, and her parents, who had flown into Boston and were staying in Hannah’s apartment.
Three long days and this was all Darby knew: Hannah Givens was last seen leaving her shift at Downtown Crossing’s Kingston Deli on the day of the snowstorm. The bus driver for that route confirmed Hannah Givens never got on the bus. A canvas of local businesses owners, as well as the extensive media coverage, had failed to bring forth any witnesses.
Given the amount of media attention, the taped pleas from the parents and the toll-free number set up by Commissioner Chadzynski playing in heavy rotation on all the news cycles, some people believed Hannah’s abductor might let her go. Boston PD had traps on all the phone lines. As of this morning, they had logged thirty-eight calls, all cranks.
CNN’s Nancy Grace, ringleader for the freak media circus, had stirred up the trash journalists, and they had adopted the college girl’s plight with a fevered, Anna Nicole-like intensity. Hannah’s high-school graduation picture screamed from the supermarket tabloids, her story the lead item on shows like Inside Edition. Darby wondered if the national exposure would scare Hannah’s abductor, prompt him to panic and kill her.
The twenty-six-year-old mystery of what had happened to Jennifer Sanders was, at the moment, only regulated to the New England news outlets. Tina Sanders refused to speak to the police. Her lawyer, Marshall Grant, an ambulance-chaser with a bad toupee who ran successful TV commercials during daytime soap operas promoting his firm’s extensive legal services, had swooped in and somehow convinced Sanders to allow him to take up her case.
Grant had no problem speaking to the press. The exposure landed him an interview with Larry King.
‘The police have officially identified a set of remains belonging to Jennifer Sanders but refuse to tell us where she was found for reasons we don’t understand,’ Grant said. ‘We do, however, have reason to believe Jennifer’s murder might be connected to a man named Samuel Dingle, who was the prime suspect in the strangulations of two Saugus women in 1982. Unfortunately, Larry, one of the few people who can provide us with clues, Detective Bryson, was murdered by a former FBI profiler named Malcolm Fletcher.’
Tim Bryson’s ‘alleged’ involvement in disposing of the belt wasn’t mentioned or hinted at in any newspaper articles or on TV. Darby wondered if Chadzynski was negotiating with Tina Sanders’ lawyer to keep the matter quiet. Chadzynski and her PR machine had, at least for the moment, prevented information about Sinclair from being leaked to the press.
The morning after Bryson’s death, Chadzynski held a press conference and released Malcolm Fletcher’s name to the media. The former profiler, Chadzynski said, was wanted in connection with the murder of Detective Timothy Bryson, who was thrown from the roof of a popular Boston nightclub. Fletcher’s picture was printed on the front pages of almost every major newspaper along with the picture from the FBI website. Chadzynski kept stressing the $1 million reward the federal government was offering for information leading to the arrest or capture of the former profiler.
Chadzynski didn’t mention Fletcher’s visit to Emma Hale’s home, his conversations with Tina Sanders or the DVD he had mailed to Jonathan Hale.
Darby had processed the mailer. It contained a single fingerprint which matched Malcolm Fletcher’s; AFIS identified the print on Wednesday night. The FBI, she was sure, would be arriving in Boston any day now.
Darby hadn’t spoken to Jonathan Hale. According to his lawyer, Hale was out of town on business and unavailable for comment.
Sam Dingle’s whereabouts were still unknown, but this morning’s Boston Globe contained a quote from his sister Lorna, who was divorced from her third husband and living in Baton Rouge, Louisiana: ‘The last time I saw my brother was when he came home to collect his share of my parents’ estate back in 1984. He said he was living somewhere in Texas. That was the last time I spoke to him. I don’t know where he is, I have no idea what he’s doing. I haven’t heard a word from him in decades. For all I know, he’s dead.’
Darby sat on Hannah Givens’ sagging mattress. She rubbed the dryness from her eyes and, taking a deep breath, focused her attention on the student’s bedroom.
Hannah had covered up the cracks in the pink wall with framed pictures of her parents, the family Labrador and her friends back in Iowa. Milk crates doubling as shelves held CDs and paperback books with missing covers. An old radio/cassette Walkman sat on a denim beanbag chair. The closet was stuffed with clothes from Old Navy and American Eagle Outfitters.
Hannah Givens had been missing for a week. Had her abductor panicked and killed her? Was Hannah’s body floating somewhere along the bottom of the Charles? The thought left a cold, hollow pocket in the pit of Darby’s stomach.
Three victims. Two were dead and one, Hannah Givens, was possibly still alive. What did all three women have in common? They were young women enrolled in Boston colleges. That was the common trait these three women shared.
Tim Bryson had investigated the college admissions angle. Darby, along with a team of detectives, had revisited it, checking to see if the three women might have possibly applied to the same school at one point in time. When the search came up empty, she tried to find a common point where all three women might have intersected – a bar, a student group, anything. So far, she had come up empty handed.
The first victim, Emma Hale, rich and white and extremely attractive, grew up in Weston and went to Harvard. The second victim, Judith Chen, middle-class and Asian, was plain and frumpy, a tiny, almost frail young woman born and raised in Pittsburg, Pennsylvania. She came to Boston’s Suffolk University to take advantage of their generous financial-aid package.
Now here was Hannah Givens, another college student, the only child of a lower-middle-class farming family from Iowa, a big-boned girl with plain-Jane looks and a kamikaze attitude toward her studies, her free time, what little of it she had, spent working at either the deli or Northeastern’s campus library.
Why did the killer focus on Boston colleges? Was he a student? Did he pose as a student?
Darby opened her backpack, grabbed the files and flipped through the pictures of all three college students, trying to see them the way their killer did – possessing something he needed. Why did you keep them for so long only to turn around and kill them?
Three college women, at least one of whom, Emma Hale, seemed to be tied to Malcolm Fletcher, a former FBI profiler who had been on the run for twenty-five years only to resurface – again in Boston – inside Emma Hale’s home. Was Jonathan Hale using Fletcher to hunt down his daughter’s killer?
Like Tim Bryson, Jonathan Hale was a father crippled by grief. Unlike Bryson, Hale was a powerful, wealthy man. If Fletcher had approached Hale with either information about the man who had killed his daughter or a plan to find him, wouldn’t Hale jump at the opportunity? And why would Fletcher come out of hiding to help a grieving father find his daughter’s killer?
Maybe Fletcher hadn’t approached Hale. Maybe Fletcher’s agenda was simply to expose Tim Bryson’s sins. Fletcher had made a public spectacle of Bryson’s death, throwing him off the roof of a crowded nightclub with a plastic bag holding Jennifer Sanders’ licence and credit cards. Fletcher had also contacted Tina Sanders. He put Tim Bryson on the phone and Bryson confessed to throwing out evidence that would have implicat
ed Samuel Dingle in the rape and murder of two women from Saugus.
And where was Sam Dingle? Had he moved back east? Was he responsible for the deaths of Emma Hale and Judith Chen? Did he now have Hannah? His name was all over the news. Had he killed Givens, dumped her body in the river and disappeared?
Everything pointed back to Sam Dingle. It seemed too neat, too easy.
Bryson had mentioned that Fletcher was trying to throw them off the scent. Maybe Bryson said it to try to protect his ass. Maybe Bryson was telling the truth.
What if Fletcher’s real agenda was to shift the focus of the police away from the real killer so he could find him first? According to Chadzynski’s FBI contact, Malcolm Fletcher was a one-man judge, jury and executioner. If Sam Dingle was, in fact, the man who had killed Hale and Chen, Darby doubted Fletcher would leave town without finding him.
Darby’s cell vibrated. The caller was Christina Chadzynski.
66
‘It seems Malcolm Fletcher mailed CDs containing a recording of Tim Bryson’s conversation with Tina Sanders to every reporter in the city,’ Chadzynski said. ‘I’m sure they’ll be playing it over the news tonight.’
‘Have you heard a copy?’ Darby asked.
‘Not yet. I’m afraid I have more bad news. A reporter for the Herald knows Sanders’ remains were found inside Sinclair. The reporter is amenable to stalling the story in exchange for an exclusive interview with you after you’ve solved the case.’
Darby leaned back against the wall. Stuffed animals from Hannah’s childhood were arranged around the pillows and cheap comforter.
‘I’m not suggesting you do it,’ Chadzynski said. ‘It’s only a matter of time before other reporters find out. I’ll try and stall him as long as I can.’
‘I spoke with Bill Jordan. He’s brought in some men with SWAT experience. When our man shows up at the chapel, Jordan and his men will take him down.’
‘Do you really think this person is going to show up?’
‘I do. At some point, he will return. The statue of the Virgin Mary I found was clean – remember the bucket of water and towels I found? That statue and the chapel hold a special connection for this person. He could go to any church but he specifically goes to this chapel that’s buried under the ground. It’s not easy to find. He must have found a special route.’
‘Darby, I’ve been on the phone with the federal task force assigned to track down Malcolm Fletcher. The task force coordinator is a man named Mike Abrams. He met Fletcher while he was working the Sandman case. Abrams was a site profiler for the Boston office. He suspects Fletcher is long gone, but Abrams still wants to speak to us. They’re scheduled to arrive at Boston sometime tomorrow afternoon. His people want to look at the DVD Fletcher sent to Hale as well as the audio tape you found.’
‘Maybe you should have him talk to Jonathan Hale while he’s here.’
‘I’m sure they’ll want to talk to him. Have you read Bryson’s toxicology report?’
‘I didn’t know it was available.’
‘I received a copy this morning. Tim was injected with GHB and Ketamine. If he was alive, his drug-induced confession would be thrown out. It wouldn’t have a leg to stand on during trial.’
Maybe that’s why Fletcher threw him off the roof, Darby thought.
‘Have you made any progress with Sam Dingle?’ Chadzynski asked.
‘The address Fletcher left on the sign-in sheet at the club and the registration for his Jaguar, which still hasn’t been found – all of it points back to the house where Sam Dingle grew up. It’s like Fletcher’s shoving it in our faces.’
‘I agree. Where do you think he is?’
‘Who knows? If you’re serious about finding him, you need to put people on Hale.’
‘Malcolm Fletcher is a loner. He doesn’t work for anyone.’
‘The locks for Emma Hale’s doors weren’t picked. He didn’t force his way in there.’
‘Darby –’
‘At least put Hale under surveillance.’
‘I’m not going to do that.’
‘Why? Because he’s rich?’
‘Because there is no evidence to suggest that Fletcher is working for or is in collusion with Jonathan Hale,’ Chadzynski said. ‘For God’s sake, we have a security tape showing the man sneaking inside the parking garage.’
‘Fletcher didn’t break into Emma Hale’s home; he had a key.’
‘Have you considered the possibility that maybe Fletcher’s working for Tina Sanders? Fletcher’s spoken to her several times. Maybe I should put her under surveillance.’
‘I would.’
‘You can make your recommendations to the federal task force,’ Chadzynski said. ‘Have you found any indication that Bryson tampered with evidence on either the Hale or Chen case?’
‘Both Neil and I reviewed the chain of custody on all the evidence. It doesn’t appear Bryson tampered with any of our cases. I can’t say what happened in Saugus.
‘I got the state lab’s report on the two Saugus women. Both were raped and strangled. There were no traces of semen, no blood under the fingernails, but they found a lubricant that’s used with some condoms. Coop’s reviewing the evidence files right now.
‘NCIC doesn’t contain any listing for Samuel Dingle,’ Darby said. ‘There is no DNA profile in CODIS under that name. Same goes for AFIS. Dingle could possibly be using an alias.’
‘I heard something about a fingerprint being recovered from the duct tape used to bind Sanders’ wrists.’
‘It’s a palm print. Have you spoken to Dr Karim?’
‘I did this morning. He was very cooperative. He didn’t have anything new to add.’
‘Maybe we should dig a little deeper.’
‘What’s going on with Hannah Givens? What new developments do you have?’
‘I don’t have anything at the moment. Neil told me Bryson did, in fact, pay for an experimental stem-cell treatment for his daughter.’
‘I want your focus on Givens.’
‘I’m at her place right now.’
‘Good. I need to get going. We’re holding another press conference. We can talk more after Bryson’s wake.’
‘I’m going to stick around here for a while.’
‘Keep at it,’ Chadzynski said. ‘I believe you have a real talent for this.’
Darby hung up. From behind the closed bedroom door she heard the TV playing down the hallway, the murmured voices of Hannah’s parents. They were parked in the living room hoping for a phone call from their daughter’s kidnapper.
For the next hour Darby walked around the bedroom examining Hannah’s things, feeling certain she had overlooked something valuable. That feeling, she knew, was her frustration speaking. There was nothing here.
Darby put on her coat. She opened the door and walked down the hallway to the living room where Hannah’s parents were waiting.
67
Hannah’s parents sat on the couch watching a recording of last night’s Nancy Grace show. The so-called victim’s rights crusader was talking about the abduction of Hannah Givens, the apparent third victim of a Boston-based serial killer who abducted college women and, after holding them for a period of weeks, shot them in the back of the head and dumped their bodies.
After rehashing the gory details of Emma Hale and Judith Chen’s murders, Nancy Grace consulted a criminal psychologist and a former FBI profiler, both women, and asked them if Hannah’s abductor, given the heightened media attention, might panic and decide to kill her. There was much discussion about the possibility.
Tracey Givens, her eyes bloodshot and puffy from crying, turned away from the TV, saw Darby and stood.
‘You find anything in my daughter’s bedroom, Miss McCormick?’
‘No, ma’am, I didn’t.’
Hannah’s mother seemed surprised. Hannah’s father stared at the stains in the well-worn carpet.
‘You were in there an awfully long time today, I thought you…’
‘I wanted to get to know your daughter better,’ Darby said.
Tracey Givens glanced back to the TV where Nancy Grace was shouting at Paul Corsetti, the media rep for the Boston police. By not telling the truth to the public, Nancy Grace yelled to the camera, Boston PD had put Hannah’s life in danger.
No, you dumb, self-centred piece of shit, you’re the one who’s putting Hannah’s life in danger.
Darby couldn’t stomach it any more. ‘Thank you for allowing me to examine Hannah’s things,’ she said, opening the front door. Hannah’s father followed.
Michael Givens had the face of a man who had spent too many years in the sun. His skin, sagging and leathery, was carved with deep grooves. He looked frail in the afternoon light. The street was quiet now. The Boston media and national tabloids were downtown at Chadzynski’s press conference.
‘The experts on TV, they’re saying all this attention Hannah’s getting might egg this man on – might encourage him to, you know, do something,’ he said. ‘But those TV people, these so-called experts, they’re looking at it from the outside. You’re on the inside, Miss McCormick. You’ve got all the facts.’
Darby waited, not sure what the man was asking.
‘They said on the news you worked on the other two cases where the women disappeared.’
‘I’ve only read the case files.’
‘Those two girls… they were gone for a long time, right?’
‘Mr Givens, I’m going to work day and night to find a way to bring your daughter home. That’s a promise.’
Hannah’s father nodded. He was about to open the door when he decided to lean against the doorway. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked to the corner of the porch, at the recycling bins filled with beer cans.
‘Hannah… she wanted to stay home with us and go to a local school, a community college about ten minutes away,’ Michael Givens said. ‘Schools in the northeast are real good. Hannah got this real nice financial aid package from Northeastern, so I pushed her. Sometimes you’ve got to push your kids. You’ve got to give them a shove ’cause sometimes that’s the only way to help them.