Find Her Alive

by Regan, Lisa

  She shivered.

  Josie said, “Bobbi, we can take a break if you want.”

  Bobbi shook her head. Her cat rubbed the top of its head against her chin and she stroked it some more. “No. I have to keep going. It’s okay. There’s not much more. He put an IV in my arm.” She pointed to the crook of her left arm. “Here. At least I think it was him. I always had this feeling like there was someone else in the room there, but I never heard anyone. It was just a… feeling. It felt like him putting in the IV. I could tell by the callouses on his fingers—when he tied my hands in the container, I felt them. Anyway, that’s the last thing I remember. The next thing I know, I’m completely naked, wandering through the woods. It was freezing but not as cold as the day he took me, thank goodness. But the pain…” She set the cat down on the floor and it sauntered off, tail flicking. Bobbi pointed to the left side of her abdomen where her rib cage ended. “Here. It was excruciating. It got worse the more I walked. Any movement made it torture. There were these Frankenstein stitches and blood leaking out of it.”

  Josie swallowed as Bobbi lifted her scrub shirt to reveal a large, gnarled, six-inch scar. Mettner blanched before going back to his note-taking. Bobbi put her shirt back down, but Josie couldn’t get the image from her head. Bobbi said, “It’s okay. I know it’s gruesome. When they found me and took me to the hospital, the doctors there said whoever did it had no idea what he was doing. They said I was lucky to be alive. I did get sepsis. Almost died. He sewed me up with actual thread.”

  “What did he want? Why did he do it?” Josie asked.

  “A rib,” Bobbie said. “He took my last rib. Broke it right off. I had to have surgery to repair the mess he made in there. They said it was a miracle he didn’t damage any internal organs or anything.”

  Mettner said, “Can I use your bathroom?”

  “Sure,” Bobbi said. “Upstairs, second door to the right.”

  They watched him go. Bobbi said, “Men don’t take it all that well. Women seem to handle it okay.”

  “Detective Mettner will be fine,” Josie said. “I’m so sorry this happened to you, Bobbi. I’m glad you survived. Tell me, can you remember any other details about this man? Did you ever do a composite sketch?”

  “No, I’m sorry. Every time I saw him, he was wearing his ski mask. I only ever saw his eyes and part of his forehead.”

  Josie had only seen his face for a few seconds. Not enough time for her to take in the kind of detail needed for an artist to create a sketch. She could definitely say that the red scar that Bobbie had seen ran from the center of his forehead, down the left side of his nose to the side of his mouth.

  Bobbi went on, “The police thought he lived out where they found me. They checked out all these properties but never found a shipping container. They checked out lots of places near railroads but never found anything.”

  “Why railroads? Because of the container? Or did you hear trains when you were in the container?”

  “Not trains,” Bobbi said. “But I heard this ringing. Not like a bell, exactly, but sort of. It wasn’t all the time, only sometimes. It would happen a whole lot and then stop for days. It sounded like metal but not metal. I can’t explain it. The closest I could come was the sound that railroad workers make when they hammer in rail ties.”

  Mettner returned to the room, taking his seat again with a muttered apology. Josie caught him up on what he’d missed, and his thumbs scrabbled across his phone screen, taking down notes. When he finished, he asked, “Did you ever hear any other noises while you were in the shipping container?”

  Bobbi’s eyes drifted away from Josie and Mettner again, taking on a glassy look once more. “Birds,” she said. “Lots and lots of birds.”

  Forty-Seven

  Drool dripped from Frances’s mouth onto his already saturated bib. His body leaned to the side, one arm hanging down over his wheelchair. Zandra had turned him to face the living room wall again. She sat on the couch, flipping through a magazine and eating from a bowl of popcorn. She didn’t even acknowledge Alex. But Frances knew he was there.

  “Ahhhmmaax,” he cried. “Ahhhmmmaax.”

  Alex walked across the room and gripped the handles of the wheelchair. “Don’t,” Zandra said. “He’s enjoying the wall. Aren’t you, Frances? You like staring at nothing all day, don’t you? It’s entertaining, isn’t it?”

  Frances made the sound he made when he began crying, which he did a lot of now.

  “Ahhmmaax,” he tried again. “M-m-max.”

  Zandra laughed. “He’s trying to say Alex, but it keeps coming out Max. That’s what I’m going to call you from now on. Max.”

  Hanna sailed in from outside, cheeks flushed, grinning from ear to ear, and holding an envelope in her hands.

  “Mother,” Zandra called. “We’ve decided to call Alex ‘Max’ from now on.”

  Frances gave a strangled, “Aahhmmmaax,” and Hanna and Zandra laughed together.

  Hanna plopped onto the couch. She patted the cushion next to her. “Come, ‘Max.’ Join us.”

  Alex sat beside her. “What’s that?” he asked.

  She took some pages out of the envelope. “It’s the deed to the one hundred acres of land behind us. I bought it outright. It’s yours. After I’m gone, you’ll have it.”

  Zandra wrinkled her nose. “I would rather have the money. What are we supposed to do with a bunch of land?”

  “It’s a blank slate, Zandra.” Hanna put a hand to Alex’s cheek. She stared meaningfully into his eyes, her own brimming with unshed tears. “It’s a blank canvas, my love. All for you.”

  Forty-Eight

  Back at the station house, they assembled in the conference room once more. Drake started. “There was no railroad construction in the East Stroudsburg area in March of 2014.”

  Josie said, “We don’t know that what she heard had any connection to a railroad. She never heard any trains.”

  “What else could it be?” Drake asked.

  “I just don’t know yet,” Josie said.

  Noah said, “We don’t know for sure that he was keeping her near East Stroudsburg, either. That’s just where he let her go. He let her go in the same town as he kidnapped Robert Ingram. That’s part of his pattern. That doesn’t mean he lives in any of the places he’s either abducted people from or displayed their remains.”

  “He’s right,” Josie said. “We need to expand the search if we’re going to look at railroads.”

  Drake hung his head. “Do you have any idea how many miles of railroad there are in this state? That could take years to run down.”

  Mettner said, “Start with the eastern edge of the state. That’s where most of this guy’s activity seems to be concentrated. Where are we with the mirror victims? What have you found out?”

  Gretchen flipped open her notebook. “It’s more of the same. Each person seemed to vanish into thin air, leaving everything behind. No clues. No video footage. Nothing. In 2008, thirty-five-year-old Antonia Yanetti went for an early morning jog in a park near her King of Prussia apartment. Never came home. Her live-in boyfriend reported her missing. Her phone and ID were found in the brush in the park. No witnesses. She was never heard from again. In 2010, fifty-three-year-old Terrence Abbott left his job bussing tables at a downtown restaurant at eleven-thirty at night to go home to his apartment and never made it there. His wallet, watch, phone, and cigarettes were found in the courtyard of his apartment building. No cameras. He was an ex-con. Only his mother kept in touch with him. When she didn’t hear from him for a week, she filed a report. In 2012, twenty-six-year-old Kendra Darden, a deli worker, went for a walk in Fairmount Park and was never seen again. Her purse was found near the Wissahickon Creek—her phone was inside. She lived with her grandmother who filed a missing person report.”

  “This is great work, but it doesn’t help us find this guy,” Mettner groused.

  “True,” Josie said. “But we have uncovered a lot of his secrets. He’s not as smart
or as savvy as he thinks he is. We have to exploit that somehow.” She turned to Drake. “I was looking through the file when I was in Callowhill. There’s a handwritten note on the psychological profile that says something like, ‘employ Supercop strategy.’ What was that?”

  Drake sighed. “My contact in the Behavioral Analysis Unit suggested it. It was a strategy developed and rolled out by John Douglas and the BAU in the 1980s to catch certain offenders, in particular, serial offenders they believed it would be most effective on. The idea is that we choose one member of law enforcement to get out in front of cameras and address the killer directly and really get into his head. It would be someone the killer would identify with and come to think of as a main point of contact with police. The Supercop would try to build a rapport so the killer will make contact and thus, make mistakes.”

  “Build a rapport?” Noah asked. “How do you build a rapport with a killer? On camera?”

  Josie said, “You let him know that you think he’s smart—that you know he’s smart—but that you’re just as smart. You let him know you’ve figured out some of his secrets, that you’re onto him. Then he believes you’re a worthy opponent. He won’t be able to resist playing his little game. Then he’ll make some stupid mistake and get caught.”

  “You can’t guarantee that,” Mettner said. “Look what happened to Codie, and—sorry, boss—but Trinity.”

  Josie said, “You’re missing something, Mett. Codie Lash was one person carrying out secret communications with this guy. Trinity was one person trying to draw him out. We’re a team, and we’ve got a ton of resources at our disposal. The more communication we have with him, the greater the chances are of him screwing up and showing his hand. Do any of you have a better idea? I’d love to hear it because my sister’s life is at stake.”

  No one spoke for a long moment.

  Then Noah said, “Are you proposing that we use you as the bait?”

  “He already tried to take me once,” Josie said. “I’m Trinity’s literal mirror. Why else would he try to take me? I’m telling you—call a press conference. Put me in front of the camera and let me talk to this guy.”

  “What would you say?” Drake asked.

  “That this case is personal. That I know he has my sister and that I’m going to find him if it takes the rest of my life. That will speak to his inflated sense of self—the fact that I would devote my life to figuring him out and finding him. But what I say isn’t going to be as important as what he’ll see.”

  “You need props,” Noah said. “Like the comb.”

  “Trinity’s comb has already gone to the lab,” Gretchen said. “We can’t get that back.”

  “We don’t necessarily need a comb,” Josie said. “We’ll have all of you standing behind me at the press conference—so he sees there’s a crowd. It will make him feel important and seen. Then we’ll get Bobbi Ingram to stand among you—if we can get her to agree.”

  Drake said, “I’d also suggest getting Hayden Keating to stand with us, maybe wearing some token that evokes Codie Lash.”

  “Yes,” Josie said, even though the thought of being near Hayden Keating again made her stomach turn. “We want him to know that we’ve found out a lot more than we’re letting on. The press won’t know what these things mean, but he will. He’ll see we’re taking him seriously. Playing the game he’s wanted to play all along. Giving him the attention he craves.”

  “What about having Monica Webb there with us?” Mettner suggested.

  “Yes,” Josie agreed. “We’ll have to bring her in and tell her what’s going on. I’m sure she would agree.”

  Noah said, “Then what?”

  “Then we wait,” Drake said. “This guy will come out. He’ll make contact somehow.”

  “I don’t like the idea of Detective Quinn being used as bait,” Noah said. “I don’t think anyone here is on board with that.”

  Gretchen and Mettner nodded.

  “Not bait,” Josie said. “I’m not going to be waiting around to be kidnapped by this guy. We’re only looking for contact. We want him to deliver something to us—a letter or a package.”

  “I don’t think anyone wants another one of his creepy packages,” Gretchen commented.

  Drake said, “Yeah, but right now we’ve got nothing. We need to force his hand a little.”

  Josie turned to Mettner. “You’re the lead, Mett. What do you say?”

  Mettner rubbed his chin. “I’d have to discuss it with the Chief, get his approval on something this big. Once we blow the lid off this thing by telling the whole world that we know the Bone Artist has Trinity, we can’t get that lid back on. We need to be ready for whatever comes after that.”

  “Fair enough,” Josie said.

  Mettner looked around. “Now, why don’t all of you go get some rest? Noah, you can relieve me in about four hours. Then Gretchen. We’ll rotate. I’ll talk to the Chief, and we’ll discuss this again tomorrow.”

  Forty-Nine

  The next day the station house was abuzz with nervous energy. Officers moved to and fro, setting up podiums, microphones, and other equipment for the news conference which they intended to hold out front of the police station. Mettner had gotten Chief Chitwood to agree to it and had notified the press that morning that they’d be delivering news about Trinity Payne’s disappearance. He’d also contacted Bobbi Ingram, who was game to appear on camera, and sent someone to pick her up. Josie had spoken at length with Shannon, Christian, and Patrick the evening before about their strategy. They, too, had agreed to appear on camera in the background while Josie spoke.

  Josie stood in the Chief’s office on the second floor of the station house, watching the press assemble on the street below. Her stomach felt as if it were filled with butterflies. She heard someone’s footsteps behind her and braced herself for the Chief’s ire for having invaded his space. Instead, she heard Noah’s voice. “Are you almost ready?”

  Josie turned and managed a tight smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  He stepped further into the room. “It’s almost time.”

  She took his arm when he offered it and together, they walked down to the lobby. Chief Chitwood, Mettner, Gretchen, Drake, Shannon, Christian, and Bobbi Ingram had all gathered there. Hayden Keating stood slightly apart from the others, scrolling away on his phone. He wore a subdued gray suit with a shiny lapel pin bearing the initials CL. Josie walked over and greeted him, taking a closer look at it. He pointed to the pin and said, “The network had these made after Codie was murdered. We all wore them for a year after her death. Is this sufficient?”

  “It’s perfect,” Josie said. “Thank you.”

  Josie felt a light tap on the shoulder, a welcome interruption. She didn’t want to talk to Hayden any more than she absolutely had to. She turned to see Monica Webb, dressed smartly in pressed black slacks, two-inch heels, and a form-fitting purple blouse. Josie could see the smears beneath her eyes where she had cried and then tried to clean her runny mascara. State Police detective Heather Loughlin had brought her to the station several hours ago while one of her friends watched young Annabelle. Josie and Gretchen had sat down with her and broken the news that they believed the Bone Artist had killed her mother. As she had done at her home in Keller Hollow, she’d excused herself, gone to the bathroom to have a cry, and returned with a determined tilt to her chin. “I’ll do anything I can to help you catch this bastard,” she had told them.

  Now, standing before Josie, she looked much older than twenty-one. “How are you holding up?” Josie asked.

  Monica’s gaze swept toward the floor. “Not great,” she admitted. “But it’s better being here.” She waved a hand around them. “Everyone is so busy. It makes me feel like something is getting done to find my mom’s killer.”

  Josie touched Monica’s arm. “It is,” she said. “We’re doing everything we can, and it’s a big help having you here.”

  Monica met Josie’s eyes. She held her hand out and uncurled
her fist so Josie could see a large brooch in her palm. It was a dark blue, oval-shaped polished stone with multiple striations all through it. Cradling it was thin copper wire, twisted into various whorls, much like the larger wire Josie had seen in Nicci Webb’s back yard. “My mom made this,” Monica said.

  “It’s beautiful,” Josie breathed, leaning in for a closer look.

  “I thought you could wear it,” Monica told her. “During the press conference.”

  “Oh,” Josie said, standing up straight and putting a hand to her chest. “I’d be honored.”

  Monica pinned the brooch to Josie’s lapel. Noah walked over. “Where’s Patrick?” he asked.

  Josie panned the room. “Has anyone seen Patrick?” she asked.

  Everyone else looked around as well. Shannon said, “He’s not here yet?”

  Christian took out his phone. “I’m going to throttle this kid.” Just as he began to punch in his passcode, the front door opened. A whoosh of air burst into the room, followed by the cacophony of the press outside anxiously waiting for Josie to emerge. Patrick stood there, wearing khaki pants and a navy blue polo shirt instead of his usual jeans and sweatshirt. His normally shaggy hair was combed neatly to the side. Josie had a sudden flash of what Trinity would say if she saw him like this—she’d make fun of him, for sure. Probably ask him if he was getting his school picture taken or something like that. In his hands was a cardboard box.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Christian demanded.

  Ignoring their father, Patrick walked over to Josie and handed her the box. “I made something for you. I thought about all the stuff you told us last night and about your plan. I thought this might help.”