Collecting the Dead (11 page)

“So we’re looking for a black 2000 to 2002 Saturn L-series sedan.” I roll the information around in my head a minute, digesting it, turning it inside out. “Too old to be a rental,” I say to myself; the words come out as a mumble. “That’s good. Good.” I’m pacing now, something I do when I’m thinking. It drives Jimmy up the wall. Sometimes I do it just for fun.

Dex is at my back when the thought comes to me and I snap around so quickly I trip over my own feet and have to catch myself on the corner of a file cabinet. When my mother called me graceful while growing up, she didn’t mean it as a compliment.

And tripping over my own feet was the least of my concerns as a teen; the real damage came from walking into walls, poles, mailboxes, and doors, particularly in public, and worse when it happened in front of classmates, which was often.

For years I blamed it on puberty and its corresponding growth spurts, but I had to give up that excuse in my early twenties and finally admit that I get distracted. Often. Of course, it doesn’t help that layer upon layer of shine covers everything I see. I can turn some of it off for short spurts, but it’s hard to turn it all off without my glasses.

Righting myself with as much dignity as I can muster, I plant myself in front of Dex’s desk. “You have access to DAPS, don’t you?”

He just smiles and swivels one of the monitors in my direction. The Washington State Driver and Plate Search database, also known as DAPS, is on the screen. “I pulled up every Saturn in Whatcom County with current registration,” he says. “It should be printing right about now.” As if on cue, the printer hums to life and quickly kicks out several pages of data.

“I’m also going to print a statewide list,” Dex says, “in case your theory about him being from out-of-county is true.”

Dex knows the Jess Parker homicide as well as I do, probably better. He wasn’t at the sheriff’s office at the time of the murder, but quickly got up to speed when he was hired a few years after, organizing the vast four-thousand-page case report into a searchable database that scored every single document, tip, or follow-up report by relevance. He did the same for the 137 identified suspects, most of whom have since been eliminated from the list, either because their DNA didn’t match, they had strong, verified alibis, or, in one case, they were dead at the time of the homicide.

Dead is
always
a good alibi.

Dex is as frustrated by the case as I am. And I know he’s suspicious of my claims that Leonardo has been visiting the mall. He’s not a tracker, but I can tell from our conversations that he’s done some research since Leonardo’s first shopping trip a number of years ago. He knows that human tracking doesn’t work on asphalt, or on the frequently polished floors of Bellis Fair Mall. To his credit, he doesn’t ask too many questions.

Other than my father, Jimmy, and FBI Director Carlson, Diane and Dex are the only ones I’ve considered sharing my secret with. I still might. It depends on Leonardo.

Collecting the statewide printout of Saturn L-series sedans from the printer, we next tackle the mystery truck from Redding … and immediately derail. “It’s just too far away and too poor-quality,” Dex says. The most he can pull from the image is that the truck is a standard-cab, and there’s a slight reflection on the front fender that might—
might
—be a badge, but fender badges on trucks are so common that it only narrows the search by half.

“Here’s one thing,” Dex adds, pointing to an image of the truck as it almost exits the screen. “See that hint of red?” I follow his finger to the upper back edge of the cab, just above the rear window.

“Third brake light,” I say. “Like on the Saturn.”

“Exactly, and those weren’t introduced into the U.S. until 1986; that means your suspect truck is ’86 or newer.”

I give him a defeated smile. “That’s ninety-eight percent of the trucks on the road.”

“Oh, less than that if you factor in the standard cab and the fender badge,” Dex replies in a chipper voice, “but, yes, you’re still looking at thousands of trucks, perhaps tens of thousands, depending on the location and size of your search area.”

“Tens of thousands, is that all?” I say sarcastically. “No problem. You’ve been a big help, Dex.”

He just grins.

*   *   *

Hangar 7 is a regular hive of buzzing activity when I return. Les and Marty are tinkering with Betsy … which is a little disconcerting considering neither of them are mechanics and they have the left engine cover cracked open. Marty’s poking around inside with a screwdriver as Les looks on.

I try not to look or listen as I pass. The less I know, the better.

Jimmy’s in the break room plopped down on the couch next to his wife, Jane, looking through some catalogs and magazines. Their son, six-year-old Pete, is by himself at the foosball table on the hangar floor. He’s wearing a blue hoodie with the hood pulled up over his head so far you can barely see his eyes.

The conversation in the break room smells like a remodel. Jane’s been talking about a makeover on their kitchen for the last year and recently told Jimmy that she’s tired of waiting. Worse, she’s under the impression that I’m going to help—so I make a beeline for the foosball table instead.

“Hey, Petey,” I say, eyeing the rows of miniature plastic soccer players. “You want to give your Uncle Steps a foosball thrashing?” His face is in shadow, but I see the eager smile. “Hey, what’s with the hood, buddy?” His smile turns instantly to grimace as he hesitates, then walks up close to me. Looking around quickly, he pulls the hood back a few inches, just enough for me to see that his thick curly hair is gone. Not gone as in shortened, but gone as in nearly bald; the kid’s got barely a quarter inch of hair left, just fuzz. My eyes go big and I give him a sympathetic look as he pulls the hood back in place.

“What happened, big guy? You get some gum in your hair or something?”

He corkscrews his mouth and says in his husky little voice, “We went to the barber shop and I got to pick which piece I wanted to go on the hair cutter.” He looks up at me with big eyes. “I didn’t know the red one makes you bald.”

Trying not to smile, I tell him, “You look very handsome. A bald head is the sign of a tough man, a strong man, someone not afraid to be who he is.” I poke him softly in the belly. “But not every bald man is tough
and
handsome.” I study him for a moment. “I’d be careful if I were you, Petey. The girls are gonna want to run their hands all over your head.”

“Eeewww!”

“Give it a couple years; you might not mind it so much.”

We play two rounds of foosball, with Petey winning both rounds. Jimmy doesn’t like it when I let him win. He says that losing is a character-builder and that when Petey finally
does
win a game, he’ll know it was a real win.

Ppppfth!
Fathers. What do they know?

Besides, I’m his Uncle Steps—even if we’re not technically related. I’m supposed to spoil him, teach him how to throw knives and juggle kittens, jack him up on sugar, and send him home as a six-year-old nightmare incarnate.

That’s what uncles do.

When I poke my head into the break room, Jane is holding up two color samples, one of which Jimmy is less than happy with, comparing it to the inside of a baby’s tainted diaper. Catalogs are spread out over the coffee table: cabinets, countertops, sinks, tile, paint, faucets, appliances, pretty much anything you’d need if you wanted to build a kitchen from scratch.

Jimmy is holding three separate catalogs uncomfortably, like a new father holding an infant. His shoulders are slumped and he has an exhausted look on his face, but his eyes suddenly light up when he sees me. “Steps!” he says with surprising enthusiasm. “You’re back … finally. Look, honey,” he says to Jane, “Steps is here. Oh, that means we’ve got to get back to work.”

“Hi, Steps,” Jane says, throwing me a smile and shaking her head patiently as Jimmy dumps the catalogs on the table and makes for the door. “So we’ve settled on a thirteen-by-thirteen porcelain tile called Mountain Slate Iron,” she tells me. “It’s a darker tile with stone texture and coloring; very pretty.”

“Sounds nice,” I say absently, trying to be polite.

Jane stares at me a moment. “You’ve forgotten already, haven’t you?”

“Forgotten what?”
This can’t be good.

“Last Christmas; you said you’d be happy to help with the makeover. We need someone with experience.”

Crap.

“That was probably the Baileys Irish Cream talking,” I say, screwing on a grin. “Besides, my tiling experience amounts to one hall closet and half a bathroom.”

“Did any of the tiles crack?”

“No.”
Not yet
.

“Well, then, you must have done it right.”

“I have to say,” I begin, choosing my words carefully, “I’m a little shocked at how cavalier you are about the qualifications of your remodel crew. One poorly laid tile can absolutely ruin a remodel. I even read that if you don’t—”

“Stop! You’re not getting out of it, Steps,” Jane says in rapid-fire. “Jimmy doesn’t want to pony up and hire a licensed and bonded expert, which is fine. I get it. It’s a lot of money. But if I’m letting amateurs work on my kitchen, I want at least two brains trying to figure out how to spread the mortar and hang the cabinets. Between the two of you, I should get a usable, perhaps functional, maybe even a beautiful, kitchen.”

Silence.

“Wow,” Jimmy mumbles. “I feel so emasculated.”

“Harsh,” I say. “Just give me the word, Jimmy, and I’ll go all spider monkey on her. I’m pretty sure I can take her.”

“I’m pretty sure you can’t,” Jimmy replies.

“Wow,” I whisper. “I feel so emasculated.”

CHAPTER TEN

June 22, 12:17
P.M.

“Eleven possible victims,” Diane says. “Seven bodies recovered so far, that includes Alison Lister. The other four are listed as missing persons, but their physicals and the MO appear to match.”

All but three of the chairs have been removed from the conference room and pushed out into the hangar. Eleven stacks of paper of varying heights line the elegant mahogany conference table, stretching in single file from one end to the other. One of the stacks, the second from the door, I recognize immediately from the photo resting on top: the Alison Lister case.

The other stacks appear to be in reverse chronological order with a summary and photo on top—courtesy of Diane’s meticulous attention to detail. In front of Alison, in the number one position, or number eleven depending on which way you approach things, is twenty-four-year-old Lauren Brouwer, a brunette who went missing in Oroville just two months ago. The police report contains scant information spread out over a couple dozen pages. As I glance down the line, I note that all of the women are in their late teens to early twenties; all are brunette, with hair color ranging from the darker brown tones to black.

But Alison Lister was a natural blonde
.

Two photos grace the top of Alison’s stack: one is her driver’s license, issued two years ago, which clearly shows her shoulder-length blond hair. On top of this, however, is a second photo, a more recent photo.

“Where’d this come from?” I ask Diane.

“The Redding
Record Searchlight
, February third of this year; I pulled it from an archived article. The photo’s not that great.”

“It’s good enough,” I say.

The four-hundred-word article from the business section of the
Record Searchlight
trumpets the recent announcement that PizzaZ, Alison Lister’s employer, planned to open two new stores, one in Redding, another in Anderson. More importantly, Alison’s name and picture are attached to the article. She’s smiling at the camera as she tosses pepperoni onto a large pizza, her distinctly brunette hair pulled back into a ponytail behind her.
Brunette, not blond
.

“Did any of the other victims dye their hair?”

Diane hesitates. “I don’t think so.”

“We have their driver’s license photos,” Jimmy says, gesturing to the case files on the table. He starts going down the line, reading from each printout. “Brown … brown … brown … black … brown … wait, here’s another blonde. Tawnee Rich out of Susanville.”

“She’s one of our missing persons,” Diane says immediately. “I think she’s also one of the anomalies.”

“Anomalies?” I say, but Diane is already punching keys on her laptop.

In less than ten seconds—which is a lot longer than you’d think, especially when you’re watching someone who types at ninety-plus words per minute—she says, “Here it is,” and turns the laptop to face us. On the screen is a chart of the dead and missing girls, along with some basic biographical information and a column listing the times between abductions. The first victim, Valerie Heagle, went missing fifty-seven months ago. Thirteen months later Jennifer Green went missing, nine months after that it was Tawnee Rich, but only a month later the fourth victim, Leah Daniels, was kidnapped out of Eureka.

“One month,” Jimmy says. “What didn’t he like about Tawnee?”

“Her hair,” I say. “He was expecting a brunette. When he found out she’d dyed her hair, my guess is he scalped her and cut off her head with a hacksaw, just like he did Alison Lister.”

“Then he went hunting for a natural brunette and Leah Daniels caught his attention.” Diane taps the laptop screen, saying, “It’s almost the same pattern with Lauren Brouwer, who was kidnapped just two months after Alison.”

“Of the seven bodies found,” I say, “were any others scalped?”

Diane shakes her head. “No, just Alison.”

“How is it we never got called in on any of these?” Jimmy says.

“We did,” Diane replies. “Natalie Shoemaker. Lake Washoe. Remember?”

“Aside from that.” There’s an edge to Jimmy’s voice. “Nobody noticed that nearly a dozen women had been kidnapped and murdered in less than five years?”

“The crime scenes are spread out over three states and nine counties,” Diane says. “This guy’s no dummy. My guess is he’s done some serious time, and probably for something where the evidence ensured his conviction. He’s not taking any chances this time around and is spreading the crime scenes around, which means he also knows that law enforcement has a poor track record of sharing information between jurisdictions.”