The Truth Seeker (17 page)

Two weeks working in the archive files and she had zilch.

She got up from the table, glanced one last time at the case she had spread out, and paced toward the far counter and the coffeepot. It was after eight on a Wednesday night, she was getting nowhere, and if she were smart she’d call it a night and go home. In the quiet night, the empty building, it wasn’t just her imagination that had the victims haunting this room, that sat at the tables before their spread-out files, looking at her and silently shaming her for not seeing the truth.

She had to stop reading Stephen King before she went to sleep. The silence was accusing.

She dumped sugar into the coffee to help kill the headache and looked around the room at all the tables. There were seventeen cases presently set out, all ones that had shown promise. When one stopped

There had to be a better way to work this problem.

“What are the odds a murderer kills only once?” The question Quinn

yielding ideas, she had moved on to the next. And while results were still outstanding on most of the ballistic, fingerprint, and DNA tests she had requested, the first round had come back. She had added new evidence to several cases, but overall she had moved not a single case significantly forward.

There was a knifing death, a strangled assault case, two gunshot victims, a burned Jane Doe, three victims from an armed robbery gone bad

. The tables were weighed down under tragedies.

She had to find justice for somebody.

She’d even concede, cutting that goal of twenty-six successes to two if she could just get movement somewhere.

She could open another box and start a new case, but if she couldn’t solve any from the first set she had already examined, it left little hope for the others she would open.

had asked lingered like an intriguing thread. In the unlikely event that Lincoln was right and Grant Danford was innocent, then there was a killer still out there. Or if Quinn was right and Grant had killed twice, what were the odds of a third time?

Two hundred and sixty cases—two hundred and sixty different killers?

No way.

Somewhere in this room there were cases that were similar. Find the common MO and she’d find cases she could link and leverage together.

It was a good enough idea to have her setting aside the coffee and reaching into the small refrigerator for a soda instead, knowing it would keep her awake unlike the coffee, a psychological difference if not a caffeine-and sugar-driven one.

Where did she start?

Group by age of the crime? type of crime? type of victim?

She was looking for a particular man, a particular killer. He would repeat himself.

The home invasions where robberies had resulted in a homeowner being killed—she’d already seen several of them. And the shootings—

several were thought to be drug-related cases; those might be linked.

She went over to the shelves with the stacks of boxes she had yet to go through. Diane had done a first pass through the boxes, finding the original case numbers and figuring out which had some information already online, getting the basics entered for the remaining cases.

She brought up the database Diane was building and saw that all two hundred and sixty case numbers had been entered, and while the case subclassification had just begun, the date, location, and original detectives working on the case had been entered.

Lisa sorted the cases by date, called up the summary report, and printed a copy. She found a red pen, pushed the metal shelves around on their wheels to scan the boxes, and located the first case on the list.

The box was heavy and slid out to land with a thud on the tile floor. She sorted through the files until she found the crime scene photos.

A shooting. She noted it on the printout and closed the box, then wrestled it back onto the shelf. The second case on the list was one she had already reviewed. An assault; the lady had died two days later from a fractured skull. She scrawled that in the margin.

The third case was on the top shelf. She eased the box down to the floor, holding her breath as it tried to shift before she was braced for the weight.

Lisa could feel an odd sense of relief building. This was a puzzle she now had a way to attack. She wanted a solution to at least some of these cases; it had become a very personal challenge. The victims were tugging at her, demanding justice.

R

The buzzards were circling. Quinn reined in his horse at the sight, lifting his hat to shade his eyes as he looked to the south. He left his current job of moving cattle to veer off and investigate. In calving season they usually lost one or two heifers at birth and it was always a personal loss. He almost preferred losing one to the occasional wolf than losing one to birth.

He had been back from college only a few weeks and his back was sore, not yet accustomed to being back in the saddle for twelve hours a day. He rode toward the circling birds and found himself riding into darkness, the spacious landscape slowly disappearing from his peripheral view for the memories he was riding back into were black.

The bluffs were always dangerous places both to people and to cattle.

A man was on the ground, and even from a hundred yards away the red staining the back of the shirt was visible.

Dad!

Quinn choked as he woke in the hotel room to the strident sound of his beeper going off, sweating in the chilly room. The sheet was tangled in a knot around him. If he ever did marry, he’d run the risk of tossing his wife off the bed with his flailing around. The nightmare came more often now that he was actively working a lead for the case.

He struggled out of the dream and back to the present, reaching for the pager that continued to sound.

He didn’t recognize the number, but he couldn’t ignore it. His hand reaching for the phone sent his watch and an empty water glass falling.

He punched in the numbers. “What?” he growled at the intruder of his restless sleep.

“Quinn?”

“Lisa?” he queried, regretting the fact he’d barked. She’d hesitated to answer him. He turned around the alarm clock and the red lights glowed back at him. : A.M. He clicked on the bedside light.

“What’s wrong?” She had called him exactly once in all the years he

had known her, and at this time of night

“I can’t see a clock and I’m not wearing a watch. What time is it?”

“Late. What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“The office.”

Some of his tension eased. Not at home with a problem, not in a car accident somewhere. But with that injury

“Are you okay?”

Getting answers out of her was like pulling teeth.

“Quinn, I’m fine,” she replied, her voice tinged with annoyance.

“Now would you listen?”

He closed his eyes to stop his first reply. “I’m listening.”

“I’ve found something you should see.”

He waited and she didn’t add anything. “Okay,” he said cautiously.

“Well are you coming?”

“Now?”

“Quinn—”

“Hold it, before you get mad at me—you woke me up, Lisa. Give me a minute here. What’s going on?”

There was dead silence that lingered. When she finally spoke her voice was edged with sarcasm. “Never mind. I’ll call Marcus.”

“Don’t hang up,” he ordered, half afraid she already had. He’d just blown it with her. And he deserved to. O’Malleys didn’t ask questions.

He’d seen Marcus catch a flight at a moment’s notice when Lisa said she needed to see him, not asking why, the request itself sufficient. Lisa did not make unnecessary or trivial requests; none of the O’Malleys did.

“I’ll be there. Give me twenty minutes.”

He held his breath until he got her terse reply. “I’ll tell the security guard to expect you.”

The bakery down the block from the state crime lab had its lights on, the staff beginning preparations for the dawn onslaught of customers.

Quinn bought four still-warm blueberry muffins. It wasn’t much of an

Quinn pulled open the door to the lab. He waited at the security “Food.”

She looked around, spotted the sack, and her smiled flashed

apology, but it was something. Not hardly enough though. She’d actually called him before her family and he’d blown it. He had a headache and it was his own fault.

desk while the downtown marshal’s office confirmed his ID and the security guard cleared him, then clipped on the guest badge and headed upstairs.

The door to the task force room was closed, but light was visible beneath it. Quinn opened the door and was met with the assault of another wailing saxophone. He had to get her some better music.

Lisa was leaning over the light table, studying a set of X-rays. She had said she was okay, but it was a relief to see for himself. She had been here all day; she was still wearing the blue-and-white striped shirt he enjoyed because it set off her eyes fabulously, and her blue jeans were the well-washed pair speckled in white patches where bleach had washed out the color. He thought of them as her old comfortable favorites and knew when he saw her wearing them that she’d had something rough happen the previous day or night and had instinctively gone for comfort. “You’re late,” she commented, not looking up.

immediately. “You’re forgiven, and thank you. There’s not even a vending machine on this floor and I’m famished.” She nodded toward a desk. “There is safe.”

He set down the sack and tossed his keys beside it.

“I’ve got four women found as skeletons across the Chicagoland area, just like Rita Beck. Only their four cases are still open.”

He stopped in the act of ditching his hat. This was definitely worth being pulled out of bed in the middle of the night to hear. He dropped the hat on the desk. “Which cases?”

She gestured immediately to her right. “These four tables.” The case boxes were open, the files laid out on the tables.

“Please tell me Grant Danford knew them all.”

“Quinn

I just got started.”

“Sorry. Tell me what you’ve got.”

She sat down on the edge of the desk, picked up a marker, and began to add information to the rolling whiteboard she pulled over.

“Martha Treemont, found in , missing for six years. Heather Ashburn, found in , missing for ten years. Vera Wane, found in , missing two years. And Marla Sherrall, found last year, missing eight years.”

“And if Grant Danford is responsible, add Rita Beck, found in , missing eight years, and a suspicion of Amy Ireland, missing for twenty years.”

“Yes.”

“Five, possibly six cases, going back twenty years.”

“That we know of.”

He nodded, accepting the very valid qualification. If there was a pattern in these deaths, it was that the evidence of the murder was only uncovered years later. There would be more victims than just these five if they were linked.

He picked up one of the dropped darts from the floor, twirling it between his fingers as he looked at the dates she had written on the board. “A common MO in the victims?”

“A twentyfour-year-old architect student, a sixty-two-year-old retired widow, a forty-five-year-old former landscape nursery worker, and a thirty-two-year-old French bakery worker.”

He was puzzled at that. “It doesn’t fit Rita or Amy.”

“Women, all single; different geographic areas, different economic statuses, a vast age range.”

“Lisa, you’ve lost me. Having five open cases over fifteen years in this surrounding area where the female victim was buried is not surprising given the number of murders each year.”

“You’re right. And there are another twelve cases vaguely similar

Quinn winced. “An MO in the method but random victims.”

“Exactly.”

“Then let’s hope it is Grant—or at least someone already behind

that I set aside as explainable to different factors—obvious gunshot wounds, known abusive situations, suspected family violence. But these—Quinn, I don’t know how to better explain it than the fact the hair on the back of my neck stood on end when I scanned the reports.

It’s what isn’t there. No obvious blows, gunshots, no apparent causes of death—just a skeleton appearing in the earth buried face down. Three of the four cases show hands behind the back, the other was moved before it could be noted; two of the cases show remains of duct tape.”

bars.” He read the names and dates, made an educated guess. “They weren’t connected before because they come from different jurisdictions.”

“Different jurisdictions over a long period of years, and several of the cases were not even in the computer databases until this review began.”

“Where do you want me to start?”

“I need the who, what, where, and when summarized for each. I’ve got to get focused on the physical evidence and see how similar they really are. Quinn—”

“I know. If this is one killer, and it’s not Grant, you just landed in one of the biggest, deepest messes of your life.” Women were disappearing and turning up as bones years later.

She looked hesitant. “Thanks for helping. This may be a false alarm and there’s nothing here. I was kind of rude about waking you up.”

He reached over and slid his hand behind her neck, wanting the contact just to make his reassurance reach inside and go deeper than words. His thumb rubbed the back of her neck and she slowly relaxed under his touch.

He hated knowing he had contributed to her hesitation and wanted to ensure she didn’t hesitate next time she considered calling

him. “The ghosts in here are thick. If you’re wrong, I’ll buy you breakfast and enjoy the fact you asked for my company. If you’re right—

you’ll be stuck with me and Lincoln like your own personal shadows.

Please don’t count my rather abysmal initial reaction against me. I appreciate that you called.”

“Maybe next time you won’t be so surprised when you hear it’s me calling.”

He smiled at that soft acceptance of his apology. “I found it a very nice surprise that I would like very much to have repeated.”

She grasped his forearm and squeezed as she nodded.

He reluctantly lowered his hand. “Get started on the physical evidence and I’ll start reviewing the files. We both know Rita Beck’s case inside and out. If these have a similar feel, it will be obvious to both of us. Do you have what you need here, or do you want to go over to the cold storage evidence vaults?”