Don’t Talk to Strangers: A Novel (15 page)

I looked up and saw Ken Meltzer jogging down the courthouse steps. Everything went
back into the glove compartment as quickly and as neatly as possible. I remembered
how the gloves were lying one on top of the other, left hand first, how the business
cards were stacked, where the envelope with vehicle documents went. I pushed the glove
compartment closed two seconds before the truck door opened.

“Thanks for waiting,” Meltzer said cheerfully. He climbed in and snapped on the seatbelt.
“Took longer than I thought. They weren’t ready. And the judge wanted to talk.”

I noticed the morning light catching something on the floorboard. A white business
card had fallen out when I’d tried to get everything back into the sheriff’s glove
compartment. “No problem.” I covered the card with my foot.

The sheriff turned toward the highway. “So tell me about Tracy Davidson’s mother,”
he said.

“She traps bugs in a glass aquarium and turns them into jewelry. Can you arrest her
for that because it’s the stuff of nightmares.”

A sideways glance, a grin. “County would be full if I arrested all the weirdos. Guy
in the next town covers them in chocolate. Everyone has a story, I guess.”

“Except the really boring people. They have a
lot
,” I said. I looked
out and saw a tractor mowing an open field. A hay baler at the other end was doing
its job. The air was sweet with the resiny scent of wheat and cut grass. “To be honest,
Josey Davidson is a little bit of a heartbreaker. It’s clear she has a lot of regrets.
The way she tells it, Tracy was the glue in a violent home. Two alcoholic parents
at war with each other. The father was physically and verbally abusive. Sounds like
Tracy was the cook and housecleaner and peacemaker. She and her brother were close.
Kids cling to one another, they protect one another.” I thought about my own brother,
Jimmy, about how we’d bonded as children. “Tracy wouldn’t have left her little brother.
She wasn’t planning to run away. She got in the car with her killer because she was
conned.”

“Looks like the department came down pretty heavy on the father after Tracy disappeared,”
Meltzer said. “Checked him out up and down. He submitted to a polygraph back then
and passed it. He’s back in jail. So is Tracy’s brother, Jeff. Nice family, huh?”

“Maybe Jeff Davidson has remembered something. Someone he saw Tracy talking to, someone
she confided in, a coach, a teacher, a counselor. He might have been afraid to talk
at the time, protecting them both from his dad or the authorities. From what Josey
said, it sounds like those kids were terrified they’d be removed from their home.”

We pulled onto a dirt road. “I’ll arrange an interview for you,” Ken Meltzer told
me. “He’s in our jail.”

The sheriff slowed and turned right on a dusty lane. We passed unmowed fields, the
milking barn I’d seen on satellite in the distance. Another barn that might have been
a tractor shed was sun-bleached to light gray with a rusty, sagging roof. This land
must have been a working farm at some point in its history. Not now. No animals. Not
a chicken or a cow or a dog or a cat in sight. I have a deep and probably irrational
mistrust of people who live without animals. Growing up, our house had been a revolving
door for foster dogs and cats. It’s my normal.

The house in the distance appeared no more cared for than the rest of the property.
Drooping gutters were stuffed with debris. Paint chipped off the eaves. There was
a filthy white van in the drive. Two
cruisers with the sheriff’s star on the doors were parked near the house. Major Brolin
was leaning against a late-model Crown Vic, a phone to her ear. Two uniformed officers
stood in the driveway. Two more were standing on Lewis Freeman’s porch, duty belts
loaded.

The sheriff got out. I opened my door and reached for the business card I’d dropped.
It was from the diner. There was handwriting on the back in big loopy, girlie letters.
Molly 706-555-7367
. I slipped the card back in the glove compartment and closed the truck door.

Major Brolin met us with a nod in my direction so curt I wondered, not for the first
time, why she had instantly disliked me. She fired off at the sheriff. No preliminaries.
“Is this related to the murders, Sheriff? Because I interviewed this man myself. Twice.
Once when Melinda disappeared and again when we found her body.”

“Dr. Street believes the two offenders we’re visiting this morning are likely to reoffend,
Major. I trust her judgment,” the sheriff told her. He kept walking. “So let’s connect
them to the murders or exclude them entirely today. And from now on, we commit to
regular inspections of registered sex offenders.”

“Exactly how do you propose we do that, Sheriff?” Brolin wanted to know. “Detective
Raymond and I have all we can handle already.”

“I’m going to get you another investigator, for one,” he replied. “And we’ll pull
a couple of units off the highway to handle rounds once a month. Relax, Tina, it’s
job security.”

He gave her the Meltzer smile and did not get one in return. She didn’t appreciate
him using her first name in front of me. I was reasonably sure he knew that. Tires
on gravel got our attention. I turned to see Robert Raymond driving up. He climbed
out of his car and squinted at the day. He looked hungover. I know the look. I’ve
had plenty of mornings like that. Brolin was watching him too. For a second her sour
expression turned soft. Or maybe it was just the sun in her eyes.

We stopped a few feet from the front porch. The sheriff motioned for his deputies
to gather ’round. Raymond lumbered over smelling of cigarettes. “This man is a registered
sex offender,” Meltzer began. “If we find anything in there that violates his parole—computers,
weapons, child pornography, a joint, a seed or even a stem—we have the
opportunity to put him where we don’t have to worry about him anymore. That would
not break my heart.” A quiet ripple of laughter moved over the deputies. Brolin remained
stone-faced. The officers responded to Meltzer. How she must resent that. “Additionally,
we’re looking at Mr. Freeman for the murders of Tracy Davidson and Melinda Cochran.
This is Dr. Street. She compiled the criminal profile you’ll be issued later.” The
sheriff looked at me. “Dr. Street, you have anything you’d like to add?”

“We have to think in practical terms about what someone would need in order to abduct,
then successfully hold a prisoner for months,” I told them. One of the officers flinched.
“The lab reports indicate the use of metal restraints. That means anchors, drill holes.
Don’t forget to look up at ceiling studs. Are there interior rooms with key locks,
padlocks, missing doorknobs? Check windows for signs they’ve been permanently closed
or reinforced to prevent escape. Also, he’d have to make sure a meter reader or a
UPS driver or friends and family wouldn’t hear even the faintest cry. Are there materials
that could be used for soundproofing? Doesn’t have to be elaborate—drywall, molding
around doors, sound panels.” I glanced at the van in his driveway. “Is there anything
different about his vehicle? Have door handles been removed? Is the back partitioned
off from the front? Predators ready their vehicles in case there’s an opportunity
to reoffend. According to forensics, the murder weapon was heavy with a narrow head,
an axe or a similar tool. Soil samples were collected from the crime scene, so you’ll
want to bag shoes and the floor mats in the van along with any debris.”

“Any questions?” the sheriff asked when I finished. No one answered. “Okay, let’s
get started. Take your time. Be thorough. It’s a big place. Detective Raymond, I’ll
need you to assist in the search.” The sheriff walked up the front steps, knocked
on a door that had seen better days. It was a cop’s knock, loud, official. No answer.
The sheriff knocked again. “Lewis Freeman, Hitchiti County Sheriff’s Department here.”

It took several more knocks before we heard heavy footsteps inside. The smell of bacon
and stale cigarette smoke rushed out when the door swung open. Lewis Freeman stared
at us through the screen.
He had a jowly face covered in stubble, was 250 pounds, with thinning brown hair and
not enough height to pull off that kind of weight. The bags under his eyes, the puffiness,
the ruddy complexion, the sheet mark running down his cheek told me he’d been sleeping
hard. And he looked like he’d done a little drinking last night. Maybe most nights.
“What’s wrong? My wife all right?”

“Where is your wife, Mr. Freeman?” Major Brolin asked.

“She took the boys to school and went to work like always. The boys okay?” He scratched
his head, tried to blink away some fogginess.

The sheriff opened the screen door and handed Lewis Freeman the search warrant. “My
investigators are going to be searching your home, Mr. Freeman. Why don’t we all step
inside. You look like you could use some coffee. We’ll join you.”

Freeman looked confused. “What’s this about? Listen, I work third shift. I need sleep.
I’m not even dressed.”

We all glanced down at the navy boxer shorts with big, fleshy white legs sticking
out. “I’ll go with you to get dressed,” Meltzer offered. He wasn’t leaving Freeman
alone to destroy potential evidence.

Meltzer followed Freeman down a hallway. I heard the sheriff telling him not to worry
about his wife and kids. Two deputies came into the house with us. Two of them headed
toward the big gray barn. Raymond started walking across the field to the sagging
milking barn. Brolin and I stretched on gloves and stepped into a small, cluttered
home. The windows were closed and the air-conditioning wasn’t running. The house was
in the kind of disarray that comes from working parents with children—clothes, books,
shoes. A Hot Wheels track ran through the living room and climbed over the couch.

There was a foil-covered plate on the stove and a sink full of dishes. A pot with
fresh water spots sat on a cool warmer with a sticky note that said
Ready
. I peeked under the foil and saw biscuits with cheese and eggs and bacon. “Someone
loves him,” I said.

Brolin flipped the switch on the coffeemaker. Made a little
sseesh
sound. “Takes all kinds, I guess.” I realized this was the nicest thing she’d said
to me since we’d met less than twenty-four hours ago. She pulled open a drawer, moved
utensils around, repeated this until she
found the drawer everyone has in their kitchen, the one that holds receipts and menus
and owner’s manuals and twist-ties. She glanced over at me. “You can’t touch anything
else,” she said. I held up both gloved palms. “I mean you can’t participate in the
search,” she corrected herself.

“Okay,” I said mildly. I wanted to tell her I knew things about evidence collection
and chain-of-custody her skinny, crabby ass would probably never know. But I wasn’t
going to let her push my buttons this morning.

Sheriff Meltzer and Lewis Freeman came into the kitchen. Freeman was in jeans: fat-guy
jeans that were pulled up around his wide waist and made everything from there down
seem small. He was in the same T-shirt he’d worn to answer the door. Small blue-green
eyes skirted the kitchen, landed on the brewing coffeepot, then fixed on Brolin, who
was still standing at the counter looking through every scrap of paper in the drawer.
I figured she knew that if they were going to find anything in Freeman’s home today,
it would not be in the family kitchen. But it was doing a hell of a job of shaking
up Lewis Freeman. Innocent or guilty, people don’t like strangers touching their stuff.
I could see it unnerving Freeman. I had a feeling Brolin was enjoying it.

Freeman walked past her and took a cup out of the dish drainer. The sheriff started
talking about Tracy Davidson, about her good grades, about the way she took care of
her little brother, that she was pretty and blond, that she’d disappeared just before
Christmas that year.

Freeman poured himself coffee and sat down at the table. “I told y’all last time I’d
never even seen the girl in my life.” His T-shirt was wet under his armpits. An oniony
sweat replaced the smell of bacon in the stuffy kitchen.

“Where were you on December twenty-second, two thousand and three, Lewis?” Meltzer
asked.

Freeman gave a dry laugh. “Who the hell knows? You know where you were eleven years
ago, Sheriff? Listen, I been married for fifteen years. I was probably sitting right
here.”

“You were married when you met Rebecca Forsyth online too,”
Major Brolin said. “Remember her? She thought you were a fourteen-year-old boy until
you lured her out to meet you in the park.” I looked at Brolin. She’d done her homework.

“Yeah. I remember,” Lewis Freeman snarled. “There’s a big red dot on all those sex
offender sites with my name and address because of that bitch.” He slurped coffee.
In keeping with his refusal to accept responsibility for his actions, he blamed the
victim for his offender status. I tried not to think about what it must be like for
a young girl to feel this huge man on top of her, grunting, smelling, sweating. Freeman
picked up a pack of Kools and a plastic lighter from the counter, lit one, took a
drag, coughed on the exhale. He flicked ash into an already full ashtray and glanced
at me. “What’s your deal?”

“This is Dr. Street,” the sheriff answered for me. “Dr. Street is a consultant to
my department.”

“You’re shittin’ me.” Freeman grinned. “Like on
The Mentalist
or something?”

“That’s right,” Meltzer said easily. “Dr. Street’s going to tell me when you’re lying.”

The screen door banged closed, footsteps came down the hall. Detective Raymond appeared,
carrying a medium-size cardboard box. “Found it in the barn,” he told us. “In the
goddamn hayloft. Almost busted my ass.” He had bits of wheat straw stuck to his clothing
and dust on his brown shoes. “Kiddie porn,” Raymond went on, and slapped the box on
the floor with a thud. “Mr. Freeman enjoys young men too. And there’s no door handles
in the van except on the driver’s side just like you said, Street. And what do ya
think’s on here?” He held up a flash drive in a plastic evidence bag.