Don’t Talk to Strangers: A Novel (16 page)

The sheriff looked at Freeman. “Well, that didn’t take long. Seems you’ve violated
the terms and conditions of your parole, Lewis. That means we’re going to have a lot
of time to pick your brain at County.”

“I’ve never seen that box or that thumb drive.” Freeman lied badly and pointlessly.

“I have a feeling the lab will tell us a different story,” Meltzer said. “Have him
taken to County, Major. Dr. Street, we might as well move on and let the team finish
here.” He took a last look at Freeman. “I’m going to give you a couple of hours to
think this over. You know something
about these girls, coming clean is the only way to help yourself.”

“Bullshit,” Freeman spat. Brolin pulled his hands up behind him and clamped on cuffs.
I followed the sheriff out the front door and down the steps.

“That was time well spent,” he remarked. “Wonder what else we’ll find by the end of
the day. I hope it’s enough to keep him inside a few years.”

“I do too,” I agreed. “The guy has no remorse. And absolutely no empathy for his victims.”
I looked at the sheriff. “But he’s not our guy. He’s morbidly overweight and a smoker.
He’d never make that hike to the disposal site. He was winded pouring coffee. And
to state the obvious, he’s not very good at covering his tracks. That’s not consistent
with your killer.”

“I agree.” Meltzer was surprisingly cheerful. “But hey, it’s still a great day for
the people of Hitchiti County. Except his wife and kids. I feel sorry for them.”

I thought about the sticky note on the coffeemaker and the foil-covered plate on the
stove. I thought about her surviving on one income with two children and a property
already in disrepair. And I felt sorry for them too, sorry that her husband had put
them in that situation, sorry she’d fallen for the guy and married him fifteen years
earlier. I was not sorry Freeman was going back to jail. I only hoped he hadn’t already
sexually abused his own children. “Your people capable of thorough evidence collection,
Sheriff?”

Ken Meltzer’s eyes softened. That look again, a smile. “We have motorized vehicles
and toilets that flush too. Rest assured, my people are as good as you’ll find anywhere.”
We got in his truck. “You just curious or are you thinking I should send a tech to
go over that van?”

Meltzer didn’t miss a lot. I was beginning to think he was better at this than Raymond
gave him credit for. “The door handles were missing,” I said. “Freeman works the night
shift. Maybe he leaves for work a little early and hunts. I’d get a tech in there
with an alternate light source. That van might be a treasure chest of blood evidence
and body fluids.”

14

“Sorry about the icy reception back there,” Meltzer said on the drive from Freeman’s
house to the next offender’s. “Can’t be easy to walk into something like that. It
was rude even for Brolin. I’ll have a chat with her.”

“I wish you wouldn’t,” I said. “It will just make her insecurities worse. Your investigators
are concerned my presence here will interfere with Brolin getting credit for solving
this case, if it’s solved, and hurt her chances at being elected sheriff one day.”

“What makes you think that?” Meltzer sounded surprised.

“Besides the obvious resentment? Detective Raymond paid me a visit yesterday when
I went back to the crime scene. If you solve these cases with my assistance, he believes
it will cement your bid for reelection and hurt Major Brolin’s chances at advancement.”

“He told you that?”

I nodded. “Maybe if they knew you don’t intend to run they’d both settle down and
just do their jobs.”

“Maybe,” Meltzer said. “On the other hand, if solving the case of two murdered girls,
however it’s solved and by whomever, is less important than their personal agenda—well,
let’s just say that doesn’t put me in the mood to calm their fears.”

“Those were Detective Raymond’s words. Not hers. And I was paraphrasing,” I said.

“We were never friends,” Meltzer admitted, and I was struck, not for the first time,
by how candid he could be. “They seemed to distrust me as soon as I took the job.
I figured it was because I was young to be sheriff. Rob was in uniform and Tina was
a detective back then.”

“Office romances aren’t good for anyone. It turns into an us-against-them mentality.”

Meltzer glanced at me. “You mean Brolin and Raymond? They think I don’t know. How’d
you guess?”

“I didn’t guess. I deduced. They’re candidates for Co-Dependents Anonymous.”

“Tina’s married,” Meltzer told me. “Nice guy. Too bad.”

I thought again about the business card I’d found from the Silver Spoon with Molly
Cochran’s number on the back, and I wondered if the sheriff was really so innocent
about such things.

“Raymond’s single,” the sheriff added.

“Shocker. He’s such a charmer.”

Meltzer laughed a quiet laugh. “His wife died. Left him with a toddler. That was before
I came.”

“Great. Now I feel guilty,” I said.

“How about you, Keye? I don’t see a wedding ring.”

“I’m divorced.”

“I ran across a magazine piece about you and the homicide lieutenant you work with
at APD,” Meltzer said casually, and I knew he’d done his own research on me after
I’d been recommended by APD. “It was about hunting serial killers, specifically the
Wishbone Killer. Said you were convinced APD had the wrong suspect in custody and
kept on it until you broke it.”

Warm air that hadn’t yet caught fire in the midday sun blew into the cab. Acres of
dark green cornstalks with silky tassels rippled like a wave on dry land as we sped
past cornfields and white fences and grazing cattle on the two-lane highway.

“Wishbone got away,” I remarked, darkly. The friend I’d had since sixth grade was
dead. I’d almost lost Rauser too. Bullets had ripped
through his temple and chest. I had been badly hurt. We’d both spent Christmas in
the hospital. And Wishbone was out there somewhere, reinventing, waiting, and choosing
carefully. I had no doubt at all that Wishbone’s signature would emerge again someday—the
biting and stabbing—and the gory details would once more be splattered all over newspapers
and television. It was not a case I viewed as some kind of personal triumph. I’d failed.
The killer would kill again.

“You and that lieutenant made a nice couple,” Meltzer remarked.

The interview had been done in my living room after Rauser had been released from
the hospital. The photographer caught us during a candid moment, the two of us sitting
on the couch. It was the largest of four photographs that accompanied the story. We
were looking at each other, smiling. And when I remembered that moment and so many
more with Rauser, when I thought about the truth and safety in his eyes, in my life
with him, I silently cursed myself for what I’d been feeling, for the stupid attraction
I’d been playing with. I hadn’t shut the sheriff down. I’d let him look at me the
way he looked at me, and I’d let him flirt. “We’re still a nice couple,” I told Meltzer.

“Too bad,” he said, without looking away from the road.

By the time we drove down the paved driveway where the second registered sex offender
lived, two Interceptor sedans with the sheriff’s star were already waiting. I felt
like I needed a shower after being inside Lewis Freeman’s place. And it wasn’t just
because it smelled like bacon and sweat and cigarettes. The guy was utterly disgusting.
I glanced at the small building thirty feet from Logan Peele’s home, about the size
of a one-car garage and freshly painted. Plenty of room on this property to hide a
lot of secrets. I’d seen closets and garages and basements and cages and dog crates
turned into prisons. You never really know what’s hiding behind the neighbor’s walls
or what a human being is capable of until you find something like that.

An aluminum overhang attached to the roof of the building on one end and stretched
out over a dark gray F-150 pickup truck. I studied the basement windows on the side
of the two-story brick house near ground level. Had Melinda Cochran spent six months
in a sunless basement? I noticed the distance between the houses on each side. It
was very different from Lewis Freeman’s unkempt home and property.
I didn’t see a trash can or a recycling bin or a piece of lawn equipment. The property
was trimmed and landscaped; the garage, the windows on the house, the railing and
eaves all looked newly painted. Everything had its place. This was organized. My pulse
quickened.

Meltzer parked and we got out. I was introduced to the deputies, and we repeated to
Meltzer’s uniformed officers what we’d told the first group of deputies at the first
sex offender’s home—we were there because Logan Peele was a level-two offender who
had the space, opportunity, and time, and he was a person of interest in the murders
of Melinda Cochran and Tracy Davidson. Peele’s wife had left him, I knew from the
background material Neil had emailed. He worked from home, which meant he had the
flexibility in his schedule needed to abduct two girls in the middle of the day. He’d
been in the area at the time both Tracy and Melinda were abducted, and approximately
sixty days ago when Melinda Cochran’s body had been dumped. I needed to know if he
had the other tools necessary—the manipulative skills and demeanor to trick a kid
into getting close. Predators are superb at that. They use puppies and kittens and
fake injuries to lure their prey. This man had raped his own daughter and then tricked
one of her friends into getting in the car with him.

The door opened before we started up the brick steps. Logan Peele stood looking at
us. His red hair was short, and he had a closely trimmed carrot-colored Fu Manchu.
His eyes were icy blue, emotionless, as flat as a central Georgia blacktop.

“Morning, Mr. Peele,” Meltzer said, in the same cocky tone he’d used with Lewis Freeman.
“How about inviting us in while my deputies look around?” He opened the warrant and
held it up. Peele didn’t take it.

“Do I have a choice?” he asked. No concern in his voice. He was a transplant from
Pennsylvania, a Georgia State grad. He’d been married right out of college to a southern
girl. They’d made their home here. He pointed to the rubber scraper doormat. “Wipe
your feet, please.” He turned his back and walked inside, left the door standing open.
He was wearing faded jeans and sandals, a tight short-sleeved red cotton pullover
that showed off the width of his shoulders and the
taper at his waist. Logan Peele was clearly as meticulous about caring for his body
as he was his property. We followed a long hallway with gleaming hardwood floors and
narrow woven runners. I saw smoke and carbon monoxide detectors near the ceiling and
a security camera with a blinking motion light disguised to look like a smoke alarm.
Classical music was coming from speakers wired into the walls. He led us into his
living room. I glanced at the bookcase, at the furniture, modern and pricey, carefully
chosen. I looked at the end tables and lamp bases. Not a speck of dust. The bookcase
was lined with hardcovers—biographies, memoirs, books about how successful people
get that way.

“How about we go to the kitchen where we’ll be out of the way for a while? Coffee
smells fresh,” the sheriff said. “Why don’t you make us a cup?”

Peele’s fair skin pinkened at the sheriff’s suggestion. His jawbone reacted for a
split second. Logan Peele didn’t like being told what to do and he didn’t like us
taking over his home. He’d given up any expectation of privacy when he’d agreed to
the terms of his parole. It would be difficult for a private man, a man who controlled
his environment like Peele did, to live with that. It wasn’t sympathy I felt for him.
It was simply understanding. He deserved much worse.

We followed him to a kitchen with slate floors and a white marble island with four
stools, two on each side, high cream-colored leather backs. There wasn’t an orange
or an apple or a loaf of bread or a crumb anywhere. Everything was put away. It might
as well have been a model home on a realtor’s tour. Peele took a glass carafe with
milk from the fridge. The cabinets had clear fronts, and the matching onyx mugs and
plates were ordered by size. He removed three cups from the cabinet, opened a drawer
with a pullout Keurig rack, and took out three K-Cups marked
FRENCH ROAST
. The sheriff gave me a look that let me know he was enjoying this. We waited in silence
while Peele filled our mugs one at a time and set them on the island next to the milk
bottle and a bowl of sugar. He placed two spoons on top of a cloth napkin. The sheriff
and I were on one side of the island. Peele was on the other with his back to the
brushed-steel appliances and sink.

“Want to tell me what this is about?” Peele asked. He sounded bored. He took a sip
from his mug, then set it down. I tried my coffee. It was the first decent cup I’d
had since arriving in this creepy little town.

“You have a nice place, Logan,” Meltzer said breezily, ignoring his question. “You
renovated about six months ago, didn’t you? Looks good. Work must be going well. You’re
an IT guy, right? You write software or something?” The sheriff dipped a spoon in
the sugar. Some of it spilled on the countertop on the way to his cup. Peele’s eyes
tracked the spoon, watched the granules land.