Don’t Talk to Strangers: A Novel (35 page)

“I don’t know nothing about it,” Johnson insisted. “I swear.”

“Bullshit.” Raymond’s big, puffy face was grim and impatient. He
looked bone-tired. This investigation had been hard on all of us. “You got off easy
on your first offense. We figured you just got drunk and acted up. But now it’s starting
to look like you’re one of them. That disappoints me, Gene.”

Johnson shuddered but stayed silent. He looked as if he was going to cry.

Brolin leaned forward. “Where’s the girl you warned Peele about?”

“How would I know?” Gene shot back.

“You said somebody took a girl. So where is she?” Brolin pressed. “
Who has
Skylar?”

“I don’t
know
!”

“You warned Logan Peele before we received the missing persons report,” Brolin told
him. “How’d you know?”

Johnson looked confused, but he was silent.

Brolin scraped back her chair and stood. “You will be held accountable if something
happens to this young woman,” she threatened. “And I’ll make it a priority to see
that your status is reviewed. I’m starting to think you’re a danger to the community
living on the outside.”

Johnson cracked. “My wife, okay?” he said. “It was innocent. Her best friend is a
bus driver for the middle school, that’s all. Somebody called her and said that girl
had disappeared. She told my wife. That’s how I knew.”

“Then why not just say that right off, for fuck’s sake?” Raymond snapped in disgust.
“ ’Cause this just makes it seem like you’re lying your ass off now.”

“She was really upset,” Johnson said. “I didn’t want to get her in trouble ’cause
she wasn’t supposed to tell anyone yet.”

“Damnit,” the sheriff spat, beside me. This wasn’t going where we wanted it to.

“And you gotta run and tell Peele about it?” Raymond asked Johnson. “Why?”

“ ’Cause I knew if something bad happened to her you’d start rounding us up.” Johnson’s
face knotted. “And you did. I just wanted to warn him, that’s all. Some of us are
trying to live normal lives, but
that’s not easy when deputies show up every damn time something bad happens.”

“What’s the driver’s name?” Brolin asked. “The one who called your wife.”

“Vicki,” he said. “Um … Vicki Bello. Lives over on Maple. Look, don’t get her in trouble,
okay? They were just talking. Vicki said the parents were calling everyone. Even the
kids.”

“That’s the bus driver’s name,” Meltzer murmured. “In Hayley Barbour’s statement.
She called the bus driver Mrs. Bello. And Major Brolin spoke to her too.”

Tina Brolin was standing now, looking at Johnson in disbelief. I knew exactly how
she felt. She’d thought she finally had it within her grasp—the answer to Skylar’s
disappearance, the killer or someone who could lead us to the killer. “You’re free
to go for now,” she told Johnson.

“Call the driver and see if she’ll admit to calling Johnson’s wife,” the sheriff ordered
when they returned.

We listened as Raymond made the call, disconnected, nodded. “Checks out,” he reported.

Major Brolin plucked Gene Johnson’s photo out of the suspect column. Her front teeth
pressed hard into her bottom lip and her eyes were as feral and unpredictable as a
Siamese cat’s. She flung the photo across the room like a Frisbee. It fluttered and
failed. The clock sounded hollow and loud. Skylar’s photograph looked down at us from
the board, beckoning, pleading.

32

Missing
, it said in the wide, uneven strokes of a black marker. Skylar’s photo hung alone
in the open center of the board, away from the evidence column, away from the witness
and suspect columns. Simple notes chronicled what we knew of the last day anyone had
seen her:
School, leaves school, walks home. 3 p.m. School out. 3:17 Skylar’s mobile/Cottonwood
Rd to Barbour landline
. Those last hours, those last moments before the crime, they always boil down to
a few bare lines. You have to remind yourself they’re more than that. Someone was
in those moments, experiencing them, living their life, thinking their thoughts.

“Parole officer’s trying to track him down,” Raymond was updating us on the sex offender
Lamar Bailey. He wasn’t home and hadn’t shown up for work. My eyes drifted to the
suspect column and Bailey’s photograph.

I moved Daniel Tray’s photo to a clean section on the board. “I dropped in to see
the band teacher who taught both Melinda and Skylar. His reaction to the news Skylar
had disappeared was more stress than grief. He was actually sweating. And he lied
to me.” I made a list next to his photo with a squeaking marker that sounded like
wet sneakers on tile.
Leaves early 2X a week. Excused absence 1/17/M Cochran abduction. Lied about time.
2 p.m. No alibi
. “He told
me he left at four yesterday. He didn’t know I’d been by the school to see him at
three o’clock.” I’d been inside that school while Skylar crossed the park for the
last time and walked into the woods and vanished. Perhaps she was one of the throng
rushing through the double doors when the bell rang. Perhaps we’d rubbed elbows at
the door. My life had crossed paths with her in those last precious moments before
she became a victim. “The admin assistant said she saw Daniel Tray leaving at two,”
I told them. “He also works a thirty-hour week, which makes him free at midafternoon
twice a week.”

Brolin picked up a marker and scrawled
opportunity
next to Tray’s photo. “We ran him again yesterday and he was clean,” she said. I
noticed the
again
. “We didn’t consider him a person of interest when Melinda disappeared.” Brolin was
trying to cover. She was telling us they were aware of Tray and had excluded him.
But the files reflected a different story. They’d let their familiarity with the victim
prevent them from compiling a complete victimology, which would have rooted out Tray
and everyone else Melinda had contact with in her life, and now Brolin was trying
to save face, and maybe save her ass. I knew the sheriff wasn’t happy with his team.

“Deputy Ferrell is canvassing Mr. Tray’s street,” Meltzer told us. “Tray told Keye
he went straight home from school. We need someone in the neighborhood who can corroborate.”

“He was shaken up when I interviewed him,” I told them. “Ten minutes later he comes
out of the school, obviously distraught. He’s talking fast into his phone. Then he
drives straight to the church. By the time I get inside, he’s huddled with the minister.
In prayer. Anyone else find that suspicious?”

“Very,” Brolin said grimly.

“I spoke with Ethan Hutchins,” I told them. “He said a lot of people had come to pray
since the news broke about Skylar. He assured me he doesn’t protect violent offenders.”

“But you didn’t buy it?” Brolin said.

“Something’s going on with Tray,” I answered. “We need to know why he lied. His time
is currently unaccounted for after two o’clock, and that coincides with Skylar’s abduction.
And there’s the excused absence on the day the second vic disappeared.”

“Fucker looks like Mister Rogers,” Raymond rasped. “Hard to trust that. And it’s not
like we haven’t seen the God thing before with crazies.”

“If no one supports his alibi, we’ll have a closer look,” Meltzer said, like he was
checking off his list.

“Couple of other interesting items,” I added. I pointed to the names on the board
under the witness section—Shannon Davis, Briana Franklin, and Heather Ridge. “When
I interviewed these girls, Heather referred to Melinda as awkward.”

“Not the Melinda I knew from the diner,” Brolin said, and the sheriff agreed.

“Apparently not the Melinda anyone knew,” I said. “So Heather intentionally misled
me. Why? She called me a few minutes before I got here. She was fishing. She wanted
to know what we had.”

Raymond chuckled. “Probably trying to cover some kid shit. They’re always guilty of
some kind of crap at that age. And believe you me, you never know what they’re thinking.”

“Maybe,” I agreed, and looked back at the board. “Or maybe those girls know something.
I walked down the street with them yesterday. You can see right into Melinda’s neighborhood.
Y’all know those neighborhoods. If someone was waiting for her, how is it they didn’t
see him?”

Shannon Davis. Briana Franklin. Heather Ridge. Brolin put a big question mark next
to their names.

“I’m not trying to shoot your theory down or anything.” Raymond shifted his big body,
stuffed some of his shirttail back under his belt. “But as a parent to a teenager,
let me tell you they’re self-absorbed as hell and they lie their asses off for the
fun of it. Robbie hasn’t told me the truth in three years. Melinda’s address is on
a side street that runs off the one into the neighborhood. We found her phone at an
intersection. That view would have been partially obstructed.”

“I got a call from an attorney this morning. After Tina spoke to the girls, the parents
contacted him,” the sheriff said. “Upsets the girls to keep talking about it, I was
told. Any more questions will have to be scheduled with attorneys present.”

Raymond muttered something. Meltzer flashed him a look.

“A couple of things are bothering me,” I told them. “It’s not unusual for there to
be an interval between serial crimes. The offender uses the time to emotionally distance
himself from an offense, compartmentalize, detach from his violent behaviors. He tries
to psychologically reintegrate into society, and into his own life. The ten-year gap
between murders we have with Melinda and Tracy could mean the killer was out of the
area for that period of time or he was incarcerated. It could also have to do with
the level of fulfillment achieved with the last victim. Some of these guys get married
and lead a normal life for long periods of time. It’s not always understood what triggers
a dormant period or a violent period. But we’ve got significant differences in behaviors
before and after that long cooling-off period. Tracy’s injuries were much less severe,
even though she was held for a longer time. That’s inconsistent with the sadist who
tortured Melinda.”
You broke her fingers and nearly severed her head
, I thought.
Why?

“You saying this monster’s schizophrenic or something? Or just getting worse? Because
there are significant similarities,” Raymond argued. He ticked them off on his fingers.
“Time of day. Age of the vics. Disposal site. And they were both blondes.”

“The disposal site establishes case linkage. It’s indisputable, I know,” I said. Raymond
wasn’t a stupid man. But he was rude and lazy. And he’d dropped the ball on the investigation
into Melinda’s disappearance. Because of that, Skylar was now in terrible jeopardy.
I felt my temper flare. “And yes, he’s significantly more violent now, more sadistic.
But I think our guy’s come to enjoy the act of ending a life as much as he enjoys
controlling his victims. Tracy was killed with a blunt object, perhaps the flat side
of an axe. Her back was turned. He didn’t want to look at her. He just wanted to get
it done. Fast-forward ten years and he decides to use the sharp side of the axe. He
wants bigger, bloodier, something more satisfying. It’s likely he was attempting to
decapitate her and simply didn’t do it correctly. Offenders without a medical background
have to experiment, use trial and error. He’s new to decapitation. He needed the force
of a downward swing. He’s learned that now. Melinda probably fell into the embankment
when he hit her the first time. Positioning of the
bodies supports that. Tracy was thrown. Her body was near the center of the crater.
But Melinda rolled off the side.”

They were staring at me as if I’d just clucked the national anthem. “What?” I asked.

Raymond shifted, muttered something that sounded like
Geesshh
. Brolin turned back to the board. “So he’s more violent,” Meltzer agreed. “And he
wants attention. Bad combination, in my experience. Skylar may have less time than
the others.”

“He’s not as careful,” I said. “Maybe his illness is progressing. He’s leaving evidence
and messages for us to find. Risky behaviors. Look at Zodiac and all his coded, bragging
letters to the media and to police. David Berkowitz with his rambling
I am Son of Sam. I’m a little brat
letter. Wishbone did it with APD last year in Atlanta. But for this killer, it’s
a new behavior.”

“Zodiac got away,” Brolin said flatly. “So did Wishbone.” She held my eyes for a moment,
then looked away. I’d worked the Wishbone case. Rarely a day passed that I didn’t
expect to see Wishbone’s venom and torture in the headlines again.

“Well, this one’s not getting away,” Meltzer said. “I think his ego is bigger than
his brain. Which brings me back to Peele.” He turned to Brolin. “What’s the latest?”

“He sat in the parking lot for an hour before he left this morning,” Brolin reported.
“Then he went straight home. He’s been there all morning.”

“I saw him in the parking lot,” I said. “He made sure I noticed him. He watched while
Brenda Roberts interviewed me. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he tipped her I was
in the building.”