by Sarah Sutton
There was only one person behind the counter. He looked to be in his early thirties, with a thick beard. He helped the customer briefly, giving him directions on where to find a specific item. And when the customer stepped away, he turned to Tara and Warren.
“Can I help you?”
Tara looked around her. There were no customers within earshot, but there were still many present throughout the store, and she wanted to be discreet. She flashed her badge. The sight of it brought a shot of life into the man’s face. His eyes opened wide. “Is there a manager we can speak to?” She looked around her again. Another customer was approaching the counter, and she turned to face him again. “In private,” she added.
The man looked startled for a moment, as if he needed to make sense of what he was hearing, but then he nodded abruptly. “One moment,” he replied before turning to a door behind him and disappearing.
He returned moments later with a middle-aged man in tow. He had a nametag on his shirt that read Manager, with his name, Darnell Brown, underneath. He nodded for the younger guy to help a customer standing next to Tara and Warren and turned back toward them.
He was bald, except for traces of black hair beginning to grow in, like a five ‘o’clock shadow, across the top of his head. He narrowed his eyes, his eyebrows almost touching from his furrowed brow. He carried a look of skepticism rather than concern.
“I supposed you want to speak in private?” he asked.
Tara nodded, and without another word, he motioned for them to come around the counter and into the room he had just come from. They followed him down a hallway, past different rooms filled with boxes and equipment. Tara’s eyes wandered into them as she spotted workers busy unpacking newly arrived items and placing them atop a cart to wheel out into the store.
Once they neared the end of the hallway, he stopped in front of the manager’s office and led them inside. It was a small room with a desk, computer, and surveillance cameras of the store. Once the door closed, he turned to face them and crossed his arms. “Well, what can I help you with?”
Tara had been holding the memory card in an evidence bag in her hand. She held it out in front of her, and the manager leaned forward and squinted.
“We’re trying to determine what type of camera this might’ve been used with,” she explained.
He reached out, asking to hold it for a better look, and Tara placed it in his palm. He held it up to the light, reading the manufacturer information. “This is a C-Fast memory card,” he stated as he continued to turn it in the light, but it was information Tara and Warren already knew. He handed it back to Tara. “I can’t say exactly, but definitely a high-end Canon. Could be a Canon IOS or an XC10.”
“Do you sell those here?” she asked.
The manager nodded without hesitation. “What’s this about, anyway?” He looked between Tara and Warren, trying to find any information in their expressions, but Tara knew he wouldn’t find any.
“We’re looking for the person who owned this memory card,” Tara confirmed. “We think they might be connected to a case we’re working on.” She didn’t reveal any more information. It was unnecessary. She didn’t want the full truth to steer him away from admitting what he knew.
He didn’t respond. His eyes just narrowed as he nodded once more. He was curious, as anyone would be, but Tara had only given him a small morsel, and he wanted more.
“Has anyone recently come in here to purchase one of these?” Tara asked.
But the manager only let out a small grunt, revealing the absurdity of her question. “This is a popular store. I get people in and out of here all the time buying things like this.”
It was clear this was not going to be easy. But Tara knew the only other option to finding whose images were on the camera was by tracking down the fire. If they didn’t find answers here, that’s what they would do next, but Tara didn’t want this visit to be a waste. She knew it was extremely likely that the owner of the memory card had stepped in this store. It was the only one of its kind around. It was well known and a major attraction to anyone seeking high-end equipment, and they sold cameras that used the same type of memory card. Tara knew she had to dig harder.
“Do you get a lot of return customers?”
“Definitely. We get a few, although not a ton since we’re outside of D.C. There aren’t too many professionals around here, but we do have some photographers and some independent journalists or stringers that come in here regularly.”
Tara looked down at the memory card. Maybe he could recognize the house fire photos, or pinpoint a person who might’ve taken them, she wondered. She grabbed her phone from her pocket. “Do you happen recognize any of these images?” she asked as she pulled open her email and downloaded them. “Or anyone who might’ve taken them?” She stood next to the manager as she scrolled through the images one by one. She watched his face for a reaction. His eyes narrowed, and hope fluttered in Tara’s chest at the hope that he recognized them. At the last image, he looked up.
“There is a stringer who comes in here quite a bit. He chases news stories and tries to sell his footage to news organizations.” The manager stared into the distance, as if trying to recall a memory. He then turned his head back to Tara and sighed. “Look, I don’t really know what this is about.” He studied Tara’s face for an answer, but she didn’t give him one. She knew he was on the brink of revealing something, and she didn’t want any revelation of her own to ruin it. His eyes fell from her gaze as he shook his head. He was clearly contemplating what he was about to say, but then he opened his mouth. “I’m not sure what a memory card has to do with any case you’re working on, and I really hope this doesn’t have to do with those girls whose bodies were found,” he started. He studied Tara’s face once more, but then his eyes fell again and remained on the floor. “He owns a Canon IOS, that stringer. It would work with this memory card.” He looked up to meet her eyes and sighed again. “He was at a story of a house fire two weeks ago, tried to sell it to a local station.”
At his words, Tara felt that they were closer than they had ever been. This is it, she thought, and it made perfect sense. A stringer, Tara knew, would have somewhat of a professional understanding of crime. He would know not to leave fingerprints. He would possibly know how long it takes to trace a call. Tara turned to Warren and met his eyes briefly. He knew it too; they had a solid lead.
She turned back to the manager. “How do you know? That he was at a house fire.”
“He told me. He always tells me stories he’s been at without me even asking. It’s a bit strange, actually, but I think it’s his way of trying to make himself sound important.”
“When was he in here last?” Tara asked.
The manager thought for a moment, staring off into the distance. “I’m pretty sure that was the last time he was in here,” he replied. It was before any of the bodies were found, and it only heightened Tara’s suspicion.
“Do you happen to have his address?”
The manager nodded as he moved to the computer on his desk. He leaned over and began to type something. “His name is Ben Ford,” he said as he began scrolling through results. “I order equipment for him once in a while. Here.” He stood up and nodded for them to take a look. Tara and Warren hovered over the computer as well. Right next to a recent order was Ben Ford’s name and address. Tara typed it into her phone.
“Do you know how long he’s been a stringer?” she asked as she finished typing in the address.
The manager pursed his lips. “He’s been coming in here for about two years now. He used to work at the local station, WPX9, a while back, but he got laid off from budget cuts, he said, and he’s been doing this solo gig ever since.” The manager shrugged. “He’s pretty young, early thirties maybe, so I don’t think he’s been doing this for much longer than that.”
Tara thanked him. He had been a stringer for what sounded like a year before Alyssa White even went missing. Could being laid off and a year w
ithout a steady job have taken him over the edge? A hope swirled at a force she had never felt throughout this case. It was a realization that they might be closer than ever. And as they exited the room, she wondered if they now held what they had been looking for all along, and if they were about to come face to face with the killer.
***
They pulled into the driveway of a two-story Cape Cod home on a street amongst others that were all very much alike. The street was quiet, the neighborhood was quaint. It was not what Tara was expecting. It was a rather nice neighborhood, not far from the water, and Tara knew that houses around there were not cheap. For someone who didn’t have a steady income, Tara was expecting Ben Ford to occupy an apartment, not a house like this. But there were also two other cars in the driveway.
“Looks like he doesn’t live alone,” Tara said as the car stuttered to a halt. As she spoke those words, a woman came around the bend of the house, walking across the lawn toward the driveway. She looked to be in her late sixties. She held two towels, and she was just about to toss them onto a clothing line but then stopped in her tracks, her eyes darting to the car. She squinted, trying to make out who it was, but then she began to walk toward them.
Warren took a deep breath. “I guess you’re right,” he said as he opened the car door and stepped out. Tara did the same as she wondered if they even had the right address. Maybe we mixed up the numbering of the houses. They knew little about Ben Ford, but they did know that he was most likely in his early thirties. This woman was most likely not his wife. But then it occurred to Tara that she was maybe his mother.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked. She now stood inches from them. She tucked her frizzy brown hair behind her ears that was rooted in gray as she gazed at them with confusion and concern. She wore cargo pants and a t-shirt, revealing her tanned, wrinkled skin and that she had spent countless years outdoors and under the sun.
“Does Ben Ford live here?” Tara asked.
The woman shot her head back like she had been struck. “Who’s asking?” She still clutched the towels, and Tara could see that her grip was getting tighter. It was a strong reaction, she thought. She seemed too defensive and too skeptical, and it only made Tara more suspicious.
Tara flashed her badge, and the woman shot her head back again with a look of pure terror. “What would you want with my son?”
This was not going to be easy, Tara thought. She needed to tread lightly. “We think he may have some information on a case we’re working on. We wanted to see if he could help us?” The woman was about to reply but then stopped herself, and her mouth hung open briefly. Tara knew she was contemplating whether to let them speak to him, but Tara didn’t want her to think she had the option. “Is he home?”
The woman took a deep breath and slowly nodded. “He’s not in any trouble, right?”
“We just want to speak to him,” Tara replied. It wasn’t a lie. Her reasoning may have been misleading, but they had no evidence against him. They had their suspicions, but they needed to know if the pictures were his before they could jump to any conclusions.
The woman curled her top lip in disgust. She didn’t like the idea, but she had no reason to deny them either. She sighed as she looked toward her front door. Tara knew she was contemplating her options. “I suppose I can understand why he might be able to help you. He does work for the news,” she admitted. It was exactly what they needed her to think. “He should be downstairs.” Her eyes then moved away from the door and fell on Tara, moving between her and Warren. “You can come in,” she finally added. She turned toward the house, Tara and Warren right behind her.
They followed her down a short, paved walkway connecting the driveway to the concrete stairs leading to the front door. She opened it a crack and leaned her head in cautiously. “Ben!” she called, but there was no answer. She waited a moment and called out again, louder. “Ben!” But again her voice was met with no reply. She let out a frustrated grunt as she stepped inside and held the door open for Tara and Warren. “You two can come in, just take a seat in the living room.” The home opened up into a formal dining room with a long farmhouse table decorated with a centerpiece of brass candles. She motioned for them to follow her and led them down a long hallway, which opened into a spacious sitting area. Sun spilled out into the room through large windows that lined the wall and gave view of the backyard.
They took a seat, and she scurried off back down the hallway, only to stop midway, opening a door and disappearing behind it. They could hear her feet descending stairs. Tara looked over at Warren. She was about to whisper. She thought the mother was being oddly cautious, and Tara wanted to see if Warren felt the same. But as she opened her mouth, Warren put a finger to his lips, signaling to keep quiet. He pointed to the ground, and Tara knew exactly what he was trying to say. They were right below them, and even though Tara would’ve whispered, if they were trying hard to overhear, it was still possible they could if they got close enough to the ceiling. Tara looked back in front of her, and a few moments later the door to the basement opened.
The mother stepped out first as she looked behind her, her face tinged with pain.
“I’ll be fine!” they heard a deep voice bark from behind the door. “Just go upstairs,” he ordered her as he stepped out into the hallway. His eyes immediately moved to Tara and Warren, still sitting on the couch, and his face morphed into surprise. He wasn’t expecting them to be sitting there.
“You sure you’re fine?” the mother asked.
He turned to her, his back facing the living room, and he whispered something they couldn’t overhear. Tara assumed he just urged her again that she shouldn’t be there, because after he spoke, she sighed and reluctantly retreated the hallway, heading to the front of the house.
He turned to face them. He was tall, with broad shoulders—the tight hallway making him look even larger. He had deep, sunken eyes with bushy brows that created a shadow under them and made him look rather tired. He walked toward them, scowling, and took a seat on a chair across from them. He leaned forward with an air of confidence Tara thought was strange. He was wearing an oversized zipped-up hoodie and tattered jeans that looked like they had seen better days.
“Well, what can I help you with?” he asked.
Tara could hear his mother slowly ascending the stairs. He heard it too, and he looked in that direction and rolled his eyes.
Tara reached into her pocket and pulled out the memory card in the plastic evidence bag. She slid it across the coffee table between them. “We were wondering if this happens to be yours.”
He looked down at it, scooped it up in his large hand, and let out a grunt. He slid it back across the coffee table. “How the hell would I know,” he barked. “That could be anyone’s who has a camera like mine or similar.”
“So this does work for your camera?” Tara asked as she placed the card back into her pocket. He had revealed something she hadn’t even touched on yet, but it was exactly what she needed to know. He looked startled at her question, realizing he said too much. “Do you use C-Fast cards often?”
“I, uh…” He sat back in the chair, a less confident stance than the one he held before. But then an angry redness seeped to the surface of his skin. “What is this about, exactly? You haven’t even told me why you’re here.”
Tara could hear the floorboards creak above them. The mother was clearly listening, trying to be discreet, but she was anything but that. “We’re just trying to figure out who it belongs to. We think they might be able to help us with a case we’re working on.” He stared at Tara and Warren skeptically. She was stretching the truth. Tara and Warren both knew that whoever owned that memory card was a prime suspect, but Tara wasn’t going to scare this guy out of talking. She grabbed hold of her cell phone, clipped on her belt loop, and opened to the photos she had downloaded from her email. She held her phone out, arm’s length across the coffee table.
“Does this photo look familiar to you?” It was the fi
rst image of the house up in flames.
He leaned in closer and squinted, but then his eyes opened wide, and for the first time his expression morphed into concern. He recognized them. Tara was sure of it. She flipped to the next image, and the next, until he had finally seen each image taken of the house fire.
“Where—” he started, but then he stopped as he stared at the last image on the phone, becoming lost in it and losing his words. Tara pulled the phone back, and he finally met her eyes.
Whatever he was about to say, he stopped himself, his face becoming cold and stern. “Those aren’t mine,” he replied, crossing his arms awkwardly. “I was at that fire, but those aren’t my pictures.” He tried to hold a steady gaze on Tara, but she could see a slight unease. He looked nervous. He was lying, she was sure of it.
Warren finally leaned forward. “Do you know whose they might be?”
He looked off into the corner of the room, thinking for a moment, but it was brief, almost too brief. He shook his head. “Not that I can think of. There were a lot of people there.” His voice shook at the last sentence.
“This was found at Fowler Beach,” Warren added. “Were you at Fowler Beach anytime recently?”
“Why?” Ben shot back, his eyes moving uneasily between Tara and Warren.
“We just want to know if you saw anyone at both locations who might’ve taken these pictures.”
Ben suddenly relaxed slightly. “Fowler Beach,” he repeated under his breath. Tara was unsure if he was trying to recall the location, or if he was surprised to hear that the memory card was found there. After a moment, he stiffened and shot his head back to Tara and Warren, as if realizing he let his guard down for a moment.
“This is about those girls found buried on the beach, isn’t it?” He waited, and Warren was about to speak, but he continued. “I’m a stringer; I’m at every story. There’s tons of reporters and photogs at every one I go to, most the same. It could be anyone.”