Eleven (12 page)

“Just an envelope that would fit a greeting card. We open all the mail and when deemed safe, it’s approved and forwarded to the inmate.”

“Wonder if it’s a photo.” Jack turned to me, and I knew what he was thinking. The mail from 2008 wasn’t a coincidence. The unsub had sent the photo of Sally Windermere to let Bingham know that the job was done. Did that mean all the people in those pictures were dead or were some intended targets?

“Did she say where the package came from?” I asked.

“Every piece of mail has to pass certain requirements such as having a postmark and a full return address. We’ll see when she gets here.”

Jack addressed me, “We know not all those pics were mailed, so how did Bingham end up with more photos?”

“His sister visited not long after he was booked,” I said, glancing to Moore, then back at Jack. “She could have brought them when they met.” Back to Moore, “Is that possible?”

Two raised palms in the air. “It’s possible. Like I said it’s confidential what happens in there.”

“So people could bring in whatever they want to? Weapons, drugs,” Jack said.

“All our visitors are checked, but photos wouldn’t get our attention.”

“You said that conversations aren’t recorded, correct?” I reeled the conversation back.

“Correct and we don’t video tape them either. The only person who could say would be the security guard and that’s if he stayed in the room. It’s that name I gave you before.”

“We saw him and he didn’t remember any of their conversation.”

“Well, then I’m sorry but y’all are out of luck.”

A rap on the doorframe caused us to look up. A woman stood there. Her dark hair was drawn back into a neat ponytail that reached her shoulders and bangs framed her face. Her figure was trim and her clothing fit snugly, hugging her curves. “I have what y’all are looking for.”

My stomach turned, fearing it contained another photo.
Had we delayed too long, was another life lost?

“Gentlemen, this is Anita Abrams.”

She stepped into the office and extended a hand, first to Jack and then to me. She smiled.

“These men are Special Agents of the FBI.”

Anita withdrew her hand from mine but held eye contact.

“I’m Special Agent Brandon Fisher and this is Supervisory Special Agent Jack Harper.”

 Jack reached for the envelope and ripped the edge where the prison had resealed it with their tape.

“You can’t do that—” Anita’s words stopped there.

Jack pulled out the contents. It was a photograph.

Anita looked from it to me. “I thought you looked familiar.”

CHAPTER 14

I lunged for the photo. “What the hell—”

Jack asked Anita, “Does the mail department wear gloves?”

“Yes, of course.”

Jack addressed Moore, “Do you have a plastic bag?”

The warden shook his head and lifted his shoulders. “Anita?”

“I can get you something.”

“How the hell did he get my picture, Jack?” I bumped his shoulder. “Let me see it.”

Jack’s eyes were saying,
keep it cool.
He held it out so I could look at it.

Strength left my legs, and I felt the color drain from my face. “That’s my Twitter account pic.”

“Why would Bingham be getting a picture of you?” Anita’s soft voice didn’t serve to calm me but had the opposite effect.

Our heads turned to face her. Jack stood. “We’re going to have to ask you to keep all of this confidential.”

“Sure.”

“And we need you to leave now.” He moved forward until she backed up into the hallway, and then he closed the warden’s office door.

“Where did it come from? Why me?” The Redeemer’s words kept replaying in my mind as a never-ending audio reel.
Confess, repent and be forgiven. Don’t confess and be punished for your sins.

Jack dropped back into the chair he had been in before. “There’s no return address on the envelope but based on the date of the postmark it was mailed Monday, the same day as the find. How is it even possible that it made here that quickly?”

“He could have dropped it in a local delivery mailbox,” Moore said. “It’s a different box at the post office that allows for faster mail delivery.”

“It’s someone local!”

I was trained in the academy to remain calm under pressure but confronted with an issue like this it was too much. I knew I raised my voice. I knew it displeased Jack as evidenced by the sour expression on his face. His lips contorted almost as if he were biting the inside of the bottom one, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed and pointed.

Jack looked at the envelope. “It’s postmarked with zip 40360.”

“That’s Owingsville, not too far from here,” Moore said.

“Why was this piece of mail approved?” I asked the question of Moore.

“Maybe they assumed that it was a photograph of a family member.”

“Is the mailroom in a habit of assuming? And no return address? Shouldn’t that alone be enough to reject the mail?”

“I’m not sure what to say. Human error?”

“If anyone was aware of Bingham’s file, they’d know he doesn’t have any living relatives. The single photograph would have been deemed more suspicious, possibly even considered a threat of physical harm toward the person in the photo.”

“Our mailroom personnel can’t remember the background of every inmate. Again, I’m not—”

“Not sure what to say,” Jack intercepted and rose to his feet.

My attention stayed on the photograph. As we had discussed before, the pictures were not necessarily of his victims, but possible future targets. I swallowed hard.

Jack headed for the door and addressed Moore. “You let us know if he gets anything else. We’ll want to look at it first. Make sure he still has Internet use rights.”

“Course.”

“And we’re taking this with us.” Jack placed the photo back inside the envelope.

Minutes later we were in the SUV, and I turned to Jack. “The pics are not all trophies.”

He slipped a cigarette from the pack and lit up.

I glared at him, but he didn’t seem to notice as he inhaled deeply and exhaled, filling the car with white, polluted smoke. I reached over, turned the key in the ignition and put my window down. “Why do you have to smoke all the time?”

He tapped the ash in the tray and took another inhale.

I let out a deep breath. “He’s going to have me killed.”

Still no reaction from Jack, just a slow and steady hand up, cigarette sucked on, exhale of white smoke, ashes tapped off in the tray.

“The killer was in Salt Lick. They know about the discovery.”

“He was at some point. We figured that.”

“I don’t understand why you’re not taking this seriously.”

He stopped moving, his arm paused mid-way to his mouth. “I take this very seriously.”

“You sure aren’t giving me that impression.”

“Listen, Kid, getting yourself all worked up doesn’t accomplish a thing.”

“I’m the target of a psychopath.”

“That hasn’t been proven yet.” Another draw on the cigarette.

My hands balled into fists on my lap. Jack noticed. His eyes dived there, before returning to look over the parking lot.

“We need to find this person.”

“And we will.”

“I guess. Why should you be worried? It’s not your picture.”

Jack laughed so hard it forced a deep cough from his lungs.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re not so good under pressure, Kid. You’ll have to work on that.”

“Why are we just sitting here?”

“You wanted to talk.”

“Ah.” I let the moan give birth to audible. “Our best lead to this killer is that piece of mail.” My mind went to the photograph, to the envelope, the defilement of evidence. It hadn’t even occurred to me at that moment because when I noticed the picture all common sense left me. “You tampered with the evidence. There could have been prints.”

“I sit here listening to you sulk whine and panic. But I draw the line when you insult my skills. I’ve been an agent almost as long as you’ve been alive.” He snuffed out the cigarette pushing it down hard enough to crumble the entire remains to ash.

“Then you should have known better.”

“May I remind you that you report to me.”

“You do every opportunity you get.” The words slipped out and I wished instantly that I could retract them. I glanced out the window, then back to Jack. “Maybe I’m just being a little—”

“Paranoid?” Jack paused. “Are you going to be able to keep a cool head for this case and pull yourself together?”

Seconds passed. I answered, “My life was threatened.”

“Hmm.”

“No, hear me out. It’s not like that happens every day.” Jack’s eyes met mine. “I’m fine now.” He studied my expression and had me questioning my resolve.

We left the prison and touched base with Paige and Zachery. They had ended up visiting both Sally Windermere’s former fiancé and his parents, due to our last minute detour but didn’t come out any further ahead. No one seemed to know much about other people in Sally’s life. Everyone described her as a good girl who would never run off and hurt people like this. They didn’t know of any enemies or people that held anything against her. We filled them in on everything that happened at the prison and arranged to meet them back at Betty’s Place in about an hour.

I held the laptop and powered it up. My mind was on my Twitter account and on Bingham’s followers. I wanted to know if he said anything else. The mail intended for Bingham lay on the back seat sealed in an evidence bag. “What about your prints?”

Jack had lit another cigarette the minute we stepped up into the SUV. It was almost gone now and it was only five minutes later. “What about ’em?”

“They’ve littered the evidence.”

A smile lifted Jack’s mouth. “We’re back to that? You worry too much, Kid. With technology these days it’s not going to be an issue.”

“They can lift prints even if they’re layered?”

“Yep.”

“Huh.”

“See I’ve been an agent longer than—”

“I know almost as long as I’ve been alive.”

The onboard phone rang. Jack answered. “Speak to me.”

“Special Agent Jack Harper?”

“This is. You’re also on speaker with Special Agent Brandon Fisher.”

“Doctor Jones here.”

I straightened out, paused my efforts to log online.

“The oldest vic could be the man whose picture you forwarded me. Facial structure matches that of Travis Carter.”

Jack pulled onto Highway 460, merged with the traffic.

“We’ll need DNA from his mother for cross comparison.”

“DNA on a skeleton?” I whispered the words, but the doctor heard.

“It’s called Mitochondrial DNA. It’s passed on from our mothers. It is taken from dead cellular debris such as bone and hair. Now, this victim’s x-rays also show a broken tibia and carpal bone. Both sustained years prior to death.”

“His shin and wrist bones.” Jack clarified. “So if we can verify that Travis Carter had these injuries—”

“That’s correct. Along with a DNA comparison, we’ll have our certainty. I’ve already ordered his medical history and should have it soon.”

“Keep us updated.”

Jones disconnected the call.

I logged onto my Twitter account. No new followers, and no new mentions, which meant no one was addressing me. I searched The Redeemer to see if there were any new posts and there weren’t since yesterday. Jack glanced at the screen, back to the road.

“Nothing new there—” My eyes were on the messages tab along the top. “I think I know how he identified me to his follower.” I dialed Nadia on the onboard system. Three rings later, she answered. “I need you to hack The Redeemer’s Twitter account and look at his private messages.”

“Sure. Is there something specific I should be looking for?”

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Okay.”

“How are the rest of the background searches going for the followers?” Jack asked.

“I’ve waded through the first hundred. Still working on it. This isn’t TV where they solve a murder in an hour.” The tapping of keyboard keys came over the hands-free.

“Don’t have to tell me that.” Jack’s voice held a smirk.

“If you were here I’d slap you for that.” Her fingers paused a moment but started up again.

Jack laughed, but it stalled when I looked at him. Apparently, I wasn’t supposed to know he was capable of laughter. My focus went back to my profile page. Bingham’s follower knew who I was.