Spiraled (Callahan & McLane Book 3) (21 page)

30

That morning Mason watched the videos of the two men at Rivertown Mall. Ray and Zander watched over his shoulders. The first clip was a quick one from the day of the shooting, in which Justin Yoder was first spotted, walking outside the parking garage. Another camera caught a brief glimpse of him in the main thoroughfare of the mall, and the third watched him stride straight to the men’s room and enter. Mason eyed the time in a lower corner of the screen. Almost exactly ninety minutes before the other man had started shooting. What had Justin done in the bathroom for that amount of time? Read a book?

“I don’t understand why he doesn’t come from the direction of where we found his car,” said Ray. “The parking garage is on the opposite end of the mall.”

“Maybe he didn’t drive his own car,” said Zander. “I’ll lay money that our shooter drove Justin’s car and left it in that neighborhood. Why else would it be wiped down?”

“That shows a strong level of trust,” Ray pointed out. “I don’t loan out my vehicle. Not even to Mason.”

Mason raised a brow. “I’ve never asked.”

“But if you did, it’d be a no.”

“I’d loan you mine if you needed it. Are you saying that if I was in a bind you wouldn’t help me out?”

Ray scowled. “What kind of bind?”

“Never mind.” Mason lost interest in harassing Ray. “The point is that Justin Yoder was comfortable enough to lend his vehicle to our shooter. It indicates some sort of relationship.”

“Or maybe Justin didn’t know our shooter took it,” said Zander. “I’m playing devil’s advocate here, but maybe the shooter helped himself to the vehicle knowing Justin was sitting in a bathroom for the next hour and a half. He could have had Justin’s key copied somehow or picked his pocket at some point. We can’t make any assumptions.”

The other investigators swore at the FBI agent’s logic; he was absolutely right.

Mason clicked on the other video.
One step forward, two steps back.
The men watched silently as Justin and their shooter strolled casually through the mall. Justin had a soda in his hand and the two of them frequently stopped to study the buildings, indicating entrances and aisles. They slowly moved into the wide aisle with the men’s room and stopped five feet from the kiosk where Ava had hid with Misty. The shooter held his hands up with his thumbs together, looking like a movie director as he studied the area through the space between his hands. He said something to Justin, who bent over in laughter. The shooter’s teeth flashed in a wide smile.

Asshole.

The men continued to walk the area and finally vanished into the bathroom.

“Here’s a case for cameras in restrooms,” muttered Ray.

“No, thank you,” replied Mason.

“You can fast-forward five minutes,” said Zander.

Mason watched a dozen men go in and out of the restroom, moving in quick jerky motions. The two subjects emerged, and he slowed down the video. The men stood and talked for a few more minutes, shook hands, and parted. The clip stopped as the men moved out of the frame.

“There’s nothing else,” stated Zander. “All other shots are of them leaving. Justin parked in the parking garage and we show him get in his car. The other guy walks west, and we don’t see where he parks.”

Mason backed it up again and went frame by frame through one part near the restroom where their shooter nearly exposed his face—but didn’t. “Our techs picked it apart,” said Zander. “They enlarged and studied every angle we could get of the guy. Nothing worth showing.”

“Dammit,” Mason muttered. “How can we have all these minutes on camera and no possibilities for identification?”

“Is it time to take it to the press?” asked Zander.

“Hell no,” said Ray. “Don’t give him a heads-up that we know he exists!”

Mason stayed silent, noticing Zander did the same. He’d weighed the pros and cons of revealing what they knew to the press. He couldn’t see much benefit. They could post the best still frame of the shooter and hope someone recognized him, but the clearest image was pretty lousy; it’d trigger hundreds of false identifications. And Mason liked the idea that the shooter didn’t know that they were aware of his existence. He wanted the man confident; he’d be more likely to slip up.

“That’s Shaver’s call,” said Zander.

“And speak of the devil,” added Ray as Sergeant Shaver joined their group.

Shaver looked as if he’d been running on hits of caffeine for four days and sleeping on a cot in a side room. Mason suspected they all looked about the same. Shaver waved a file at them. “Got something interesting.”

“Spill it,” said Zander.

“Ballistics on the bullets from the Eugene shooting match a case from a decade ago,” Shaver announced.

The group was silent.

“It took
that long
to get results?” asked Ray. “It’s been two months since the Eugene incident.”

“They didn’t assign a priority to getting the bullets through forensics. They had a dead shooter and knew who he was,” Shaver pointed out. “Lane County didn’t see the point to ask for a rush when they weren’t searching for a suspect, and I wouldn’t have, either. There’re too many cases that need quick answers. This wasn’t one of them.”

The men slowly nodded in understanding. “And the old case that it matches?” asked Zander.

Shaver looked at his file. “March of ten years ago. Sharon Silva was shot once in the head at her home. She lived alone and wasn’t missed until she didn’t show up for her shift three days later. This happened in Eugene not too far from the University of Oregon campus and it was never solved.” He looked up. “She was a U of O police officer.”

His words ricocheted in Mason’s head, and he fought down his anger. The senseless deaths of fellow officers who’d put their lives on the line to protect others always pissed him off. And this was a woman. Doubly bad. He saw his feelings reflected in the eyes of the other men. Ray let loose a streak of expletives.

“I remember that. She wasn’t very old, was she?” asked Ray. “Every department in the state takes it very personally when one of our own is killed. I can’t believe it’s still not solved. They threw everything at that case.”

“Nothing panned out,” said Shaver.

Mason didn’t remember the case. “You have her picture?” Shaver held up an image of a woman who appeared to be in her late twenties. She had a warm smile. “Family? Suspects?”

“Some family that lived out of state,” answered Shaver. “They questioned the neighbors, but everyone swore they heard nothing. She was shot late at night on a Saturday while the house next door had a live band playing. I imagine it was loud.”

Mason groaned. “And multiplied the number of interviews and suspects. She was inside her home?”

“In her backyard. Looks like she was on a bench on her back patio. The report said she had a broken beer bottle near her body and beer in her system. After checking with the party, no one had brought that particular brand, and she had a partial six-pack of it in her fridge. They think she was simply outside listening to the band from her own yard when she was shot.”

“Location of shooter?” Ray asked.

“About ten feet away. One shot at the back of her head.”

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Mason. “An assassination.”

Shaver gave him an odd look. “Several of the investigators made a similar observation. Stated it felt cold and calculated. Not an accident.”

“It’s Eugene again,” said Zander. “What made our shooter wait ten years between murders?”

“Maybe we need to check all the cold-case shootings from the last decade in the Eugene area,” said Ray. “Maybe it hasn’t been ten years. Since the recent ballistics comparison would have hit on any other bullet matches, maybe we need to look at other similar aspects in case he has multiple weapons.”

“Other aspects?” asked Shaver.

“Cold cases with multiple gunshot victims? Or women who live alone who’ve been shot?” said Ray as he stared at the ceiling in deep concentration.

An alarm sounded in Mason’s brain.

“Women in law enforcement,” said Mason, looking at the other investigators.

“Gabrielle Gower.” Zander slapped the table as he caught Mason’s train of thought. “The first victim in the Rivertown Mall shooting. She was a former patrol officer from Medford. I think she’d left the force about two years ago.”

“Let me see the lists of the other victims in the shootings,” said Shaver. “Now!”

“Jennifer Spendlin was the mom who dropped her toddler in Eugene,” said Zander. “She wasn’t law enforcement, but she was an instructor at a shooting range.”

All the men looked at Zander.

He shrugged and met their curious gazes. “I remember stuff. No one had a law enforcement history at that shooting that I recall.”

Mason recalled Ava’s saying that Zander had a reputation in their office for a nearly photographic memory.

“What about the Troutdale shooting?” Shaver asked.

“Anna Luther,” promptly answered Zander. “Retired Yamhill County deputy.”

“Bingo,” Mason breathed. “We’ve got a connection.”

31

Ten years earlier

He held his breath as Lindy passed by his hiding place. It wasn’t exactly a hiding place; he was leaning against a wall and anyone could see him except for the people on the path walking east in front of the campus library. As Lindy had just done. He straightened and casually moved to follow her on the path. The sun had just set and the campus lights illuminated the paths with splotches of brightness that fought to shine through the dense branches of the trees. He started to jog. “Hey, Lindy!”

She whirled around, one hand on her backpack strap, her face instantly wary as she squinted to make him out in the poor light. She registered his identity and her shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Oh, hello.”

Her flat tone slowed him to a walk and he clenched his teeth. What would it take to reach this girl?
He forced a smile. “Are you heading home? I’ll walk you. It’s getting late.” He knew which dorm she lived in, but he wouldn’t reveal that fact. As far as Lindy knew, he was just a nice guy in her chem class who said hello occasionally. He knew his scars were visible down the left side of his neck; it looked as if his skin had melted. But they didn’t affect his face—just that little area in front of his ear. A baseball cap made his hair lie correctly on the left instead of slightly askew from the contorted skin.

She took a half step backward. “That’s okay. I’m not heading home yet.”

He waited for her to say where she was going, but she didn’t expand. An uncomfortable silence grew between them. His lips strained to keep his casual smile in place as she started to turn away. “Do you have time to grab a cup of coffee?”

Lindy tucked her dark hair behind her ear as she looked back at him. “I’m sorry. I need to be somewhere.” Her gaze skittered away from his.

She’s lying.
He’d watched her walk the same path three days a week for the past four weeks; she was headed home. She took two steps away from him. “Wait!” He lunged forward and caught her arm, not wanting her to leave just yet. If she’d just give him a chance, she’d discover they’d get along perfectly—but first she needed to listen.

She jerked her arm out of his hand. “Don’t grab me!” Her dark eyes flashed.

He held up both his hands. “Sorry about that. I just wasn’t done talking to you.”

“I was done. I need to go.”

“You haven’t given me a chance,” he blurted.

She stopped and looked back at him, an odd expression on her face. “A chance for what?”

“To talk,” he said lamely.
This isn’t how this was supposed to go.
“Let’s get some coffee,” he tried again. He wasn’t ready to let her walk away.

“Look,” Lindy said firmly. “I need to go home. I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

“You just said you weren’t going home,” he argued. Anger rushed through his brain. She lied to him and wouldn’t listen to what he had to say?

Fear touched her eyes, and she took another step back, blinking rapidly. “I need to go.”

“Everything okay here?” asked a female voice. A woman in a police uniform appeared on his right.
How long was she standing there?

“Yes, it’s fine,” he automatically replied, forcing his lips to smile at her. She looked unimpressed. The campus had several police officers, but he’d never seen a female one before. She was tall and thin with her hair pulled back in a tight knot at her neck. She could have been attractive if she’d done something with herself instead of trying to look like a man.
The campus must not pay well if they have to hire women.

“What do you think?” she asked Lindy. “Do you agree that everything is fine?”

The condescension in her tone made him want to scratch something.

Lindy looked at the cop and didn’t answer. The cop wasn’t very old, but she acted like a mother who’d caught them misbehaving. She looked him up and down, and her scorn torched him through his clothes. “I think you need to back off a bit. She made it pretty clear that she wanted to leave and you weren’t about to let her go.”

Blood pounded in his ears.

How long was she listening?

“This was a private conversation,” he forced out. “Why were you eavesdropping?”

The cop stepped closer, her brows narrowed, and he read the small gold bar on the left side of her chest.
S
ILVA
.
A glimmer on her lip told him she wore lip gloss, the sole sign that she utilized feminine beauty products. A hint of fake strawberry odor touched his nose.
Probably from the lip gloss.
“When a woman wants you to leave her alone, you back off,” she said, holding his gaze. “She doesn’t have to do anything simply because you asked. Give her some space.”

His vision tunneled, the trees and paths of the campus disappearing. It was just him and this bitch. “Where do you get off talking to me like that?” he sputtered.

She tapped her badge. “This right here. I asked you nicely to leave the girl alone, and you don’t seem to understand that she owes you nothing. Now move along and don’t talk to her again.”

Shock rocked through him. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

She smiled sweetly, lips sparkling. “I just did. You can choose to accept my advice or go back to the station with me.”

He couldn’t move. All he’d done was talk to a girl and this bitch believed she could order him around? Intimidate him? “Are you threatening me?”

She turned her back on him and spoke to Lindy, holding out a business card. “Call the number on this card if he harasses you again. I have no tolerance for that sort of behavior.” Lindy took the card and rapidly walked away without a single glance at him.

Rage coated his skin. The cop bitch had completely blown the progress he had made with Lindy. Now she’d never speak to him again. The cop turned around and insolently tilted her head as she studied him.

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to pester girls? Maybe you need to take a class on body language. I heard every word the two of you said, and that girl was telling you in spoken words
and
body language that she felt nervous and wanted to leave. Couldn’t you see that?”

He couldn’t speak through his anger.
She’s as bad as my mother.

“You’re in college, so here’s your lesson for the day: be nice to women. Don’t approach them on dim paths or dark streets. You’re bigger and stronger than us, and we automatically see you as a possible rapist and killer. Do you know what it’s like to wonder if the man you’re talking to is planning to hurt you? I bet it never even crosses your mind.”

Rapist. Killer.
Her accusations stabbed him.

“Women shouldn’t be cops.”

She straightened, but still had to look up to him. “And why is that?”

“It’s a position of authority. You just told me no one listens to women and that men are bigger and stronger. It makes sense for a man to have your job.”

Her expression turned condescending again. “I’m not here to argue with you. I’m here to help college girls make it back to their dorm rooms safely. Now move along before I consider you a threat to myself.”

He wanted to punch the smug look off her face. His mother had looked at his father with the exact same expression when she’d thought she knew better than him. Dad had always let her know the reality. And then a female cop—just like this one—had dragged his father away.

“I said
get going
.” She glanced down at his hands.

At his sides his hands were in fists. Her expression narrowed and through his anger-fueled vision, he noticed her hand move to her belt.

He stepped back.

“If I catch you harassing other women, I’ll take you in.”

He turned and walked away, counting to ten, waiting for his vision to clear. The female cop said something else, but it didn’t register in his brain.

Fucking bitch. No one talks to me like that. No one.

Two days later he followed her home. For a cop, Silva didn’t take many precautions. It was easy to scope out the campus police station and wait for her shift to end. She stepped out of a side entrance of the little station in sweats and with her hair down, loose and flowing around her face. She could have been any other college coed, but she was a bit too old. She walked home, blending in with the students. None of them acknowledged her. He’d noticed that when she walked the campus in uniform, students stopped her constantly. They asked for directions and several of them thought it was funny to ask stupid questions. He’d moved closer when groups of college guys stopped her, curious to hear what they said to her. Their questions were lame:

What happens if you caught me with a joint?

Would I go to jail if you found me drunk on campus?

You can’t arrest me if I’m drinking in my dorm room, right?

Her answers had been serious and to the point, quickly taking the steam out of what the guys clearly thought was a hilarious topic. He’d watched them ridicule her as soon as her back was turned, and he’d smirked along with them.
See? No one listens to female cops. Doesn’t she realize she’s the joke?

But in sweats she was invisible to everyone. Except him.

He’d discovered she lived in a tiny house about a mile from campus. Some snooping assured him she lived alone. The third time he’d followed her home, he’d noticed guys moving amps and speakers and other band equipment into the house next door. He walked closer, trying to see if it was a music group he’d heard of. One guy spotted him and shoved a flyer into his hands. “Only five bucks to get in tonight. And beers are a buck a cup. Gonna be packed.”

He took the flyer and walked back toward campus, an idea buzzing around his brain.

He’d show her.