Chapter 15

At almost perfectly spaced intervals along the roads, plump, green spruce trees were scattered amidst the barren branches of the trees that had lost their leaves.

As I drove to the newspaper office, slate grey winter clouds drifted across the azure sky. Although I hadn’t seen a forecast, my internal meteorologist told me snow might be in my immediate future. If Josie and I were going to the cabin, we should get started before long. Didn’t want to be out driving on hazardous roads.

Adam wasn’t in when I arrived.

“Where is he?” I asked Asia.

“Took off for a few days. Dealing with the little woman.”

I frowned. “That was awful. What happened to her friend.”

“I know. Still don’t like the bitch. How weird is that, though? With the obits?”

“Very weird.” I shuddered. Weird was an understatement.

“The killer using the newspaper to let the world know who he’s going to kill? Freaky.”

I was pretty sure the police wanted to keep those details private, but it was all over the office. Not a chance of keeping it under wraps.

“Hey, listen. I’m going to take off a few days. If Adam comes in, would you let him know?”

“Yeah,” Asia said slowly. “What’s up?”

“Josie and I are going to the cabin. She’s entering rehab soon and needs some time away. A little fun before the hell starts.”

“Hasn’t that girl had enough fun? Fun seems to be her problem.”

I rolled my eyes. “This is different. She needs some R and R at the cabin. I told her I’d go with her.”

“You need some time away, too. I just think you could pick a better companion.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. News flash. You don’t like Josie.”

“No, but I love you. Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will. I’m fine.”

I left the office, calling Josie from my car. She didn’t answer. A niggle of worry started, but I pushed it back. She was probably just in the shower.

I got home and discovered she wasn’t in the shower. Wasn’t in the house at all. No note on the cowboy desk. Where could she be?

In her room, I found a clue as to where she might be. Or, at least, what she might be doing. A narrow straw and a razor blade lay on the dresser. Small white grains of powder glinted on the blade.

Son of a bitch.

Anger and fear warred inside me. Heroin was her normal choice, but the girl wasn’t picky. Coke would do in a pinch. Or, maybe it was heroin. I wasn’t sure exactly what the drug looked like, didn’t know if it was snorted like cocaine. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Days before rehab and she was back on the crap. Where had she gotten it? And why would she leave it out like that for me to find?

The answer to the first question was obvious. Matt.

Had she gone off with him? Taken him to the cabin maybe? Surely not. She wouldn’t do that. Would she?

I knew the answer to that one, too. There were very few limits to what Josie might do. Especially for the drugs.

I didn’t really think she’d be there, but the cabin was a place to start. I had no idea where else to look.

I scooped up the straw and razor blade and dropped them in my jacket pocket. I wasn’t really sure why I did. Maybe to brandish when I confronted her. Maybe so the cops wouldn’t find it if they happened to come to the house. Not that it was exactly wise to have the items on me. But I didn’t expect to get strip-searched by the cops any time soon.

In case I did find her—and, in case Matt was with her—I slipped the .22 in my other pocket.

****

Lane checked out the alibi Harmon had given them—that he was at his St. Louis office the day of the murder—while Tony volunteered to take one for the team by chasing down the Hooter’s waitress. Harmon’s office confirmed he’d been there on Friday, although that didn’t mean he hadn’t gone back and forth to where the girl was kept. They knew she’d been taken on Thursday night, killed on Friday night, late. What had been going on in between was still unanswered.

None of the Hooter’s waitresses could say for sure if they’d seen Harmon. They admitted he could have been there, that it wasn’t unusual for them to flirt with a multitude of customers and not remember their names or faces by the end of the shift.

Lane had told Tony about the song titles, but neither of them had been able to figure out why the killer was using them, what significance they had. Everything was a dead end.

Lane was at the station, reading obituaries from the past few days. He’d already gone through the Chronicle and nothing caught his eye. He was now reading the Star. He’d made calls to all the papers within two-hundred miles of Kansas City, asking them if they’d had any obits sent in with the wrong dates. None had. They’d all assured him that, if it happened, they’d call. It was a long shot, but he had to try. This maniac was using obits to forecast his kills. Wasn’t feasible that he would suddenly stop. Psychos were nothing if not true to form.

Most likely, if any paper had received an obit with the wrong date, it had been corrected before going to print. Still, he perused the obituary columns, searching for a clue. It was boring work. The less glamorous side of detecting. The old joke about people dying alphabetically came to mind. He knew then that true boredom had set in.

“You busy?” a voice said. Lane looked up to find Lou Vittori, one of the cold case detectives, at his desk.

“Nothing that can’t wait. What you got?” He’d asked Vittori to check on Katie Broussard’s case after his talk with Monroe.

“I have the Broussard file. Nothing new that I can see, so we can’t open the case, but thought you might want to know what we have.”

Vittori settled his bulky physique in the chair adjacent to Lane’s, placing a Styrofoam cup of coffee on Lane’s desk.

He studied the file for a moment from beneath busy grey eyebrows, then read aloud, “The victim was twelve years old. On July tenth, 1983, her and two friends, Josephine Detweiler and Monroe Donovan, were staying in a tent in the Donovan’s back yard. Sometime around two a.m., the two friends, Detweiler and Donovan, awoke. Broussard was not in the tent. The girls went to look for her in the woods behind the house. They didn’t find her. Woke the Donovan girl’s parents, who called the police. The girl’s body was found a few hours later, by a neighbor involved in the search.”

“What about suspects?” Lane asked, picturing a twelve-year-old Monroe dealing with the horrific tragedy.

“There are three boys in the Donovan family. They were all questioned. Two of them had been hunting that night but were in the house by the time the girl disappeared. Soil was found in the Donovan home that matched the soil near the crime scene, but the same soil was all over those woods. It was determined it was tracked in earlier, when the boys came in from hunting. A neighbor witnessed the boys returning at around eleven p.m., well before Broussard went missing.”

Vittori sipped from the cup, then continued. “Another suspect, Cameron Cooper, was questioned and released. He did some time for a rape but had an alibi for that night. Couldn’t make anything stick. The girl was strangled and her skull was crushed, her pants and panties down around her knees. No semen was found, no evidence of penetration. Cops figured either the guy was impotent, or something interrupted him. It appears sexual assault was intended, but not completed.”

“No other suspects?”

“One more. This one looked like the real deal for a few days. A fourteen-year-old boy who lived in the area. His girlfriend contacted the police a few days after the murder and claimed he’d bragged about killing the Broussard girl. He also had a solid alibi. He was at a sleep-over with a friend. The friend’s parents confirmed the boys never left the house. A few days later, the girlfriend recanted her story. Turns out, she was mad at him, trying to get back for him after kissing another girl. Leads ran out after that.”

“Damn,” Lane said. “Not much to go on.” He put aside the Star and picked up another paper. One from Iowa, the Des Moines Herald.

“There was another killing a year earlier.” Vittori leafed through the papers. “Cassie Carthage. There were some similarities, and some differences. Both girls found in a wooded area. Both strangled. Broussard’s skull was crushed, but not Carthage’s. Carthage was raped. Broussard wasn’t. A few things were kept from the media, though. Carthage’s arms were crossed over her chest when her body was found, but not Broussard’s. Never could make a definite link. No one arrested in that case, either. DNA wasn’t around then. Not sure if they’d have found anything if it was. Hard to gather DNA out in nature. Especially when there were no body fluids.”

“The girl who gave the false info in Broussard’s case didn’t help any.”

“That’s for damn sure. Tied them up with that for the critical time frame. Ask me,” Vittori said, pausing to slurp from the coffee cup, “people like that should be prosecuted along with the fucking criminals.”

****

When I rounded the bend and the cabin came in sight, I slammed on my brakes, taking a second look, then a third to be sure I was seeing what I thought I was seeing.

I hadn’t expected Josie to be here. I would have been surprised, relieved even, if she had been, especially if Matt hadn’t been with her. While the car parked in the drive of the cabin was certainly a surprise, there was no relief to go along with it. I clenched my hair so tight my eyes watered. Fucking Adam.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been angry. After all, he was grieving over Laurel Lohman. Tabitha probably needed to get away. But for chrissake, if he wanted to get away and help his fiancée grieve, that was his business. But not in my cabin.

I climbed from the car and slammed the door. As I headed toward the porch, passing Adam’s prized Lexus, I just barely resisted the urge to key the flawless black paint.

A thought occurred to me that made me halt at the bottom of the steps. What if they were actually having sex, right now? Did I really want to walk in on that?

No, I didn’t want to, but I damn sure wasn’t letting them finish.

When I stepped up on the porch, I heard loud music coming from inside. Something about the song gave me pause. Chills crept over my skin. What was it about this song? My anger wouldn’t let me register anything other than my asshole ex. A distant memory tugged at me, but I couldn’t bring it into full focus.

I turned the knob and was pushing the door open before the connection clicked. By then, it was too late. I was already inside.

The music soared…reverberated around me…through me, registering more quickly than the scene in front of my eyes—I recognized the song, but my mind wouldn’t quite accept what my eyes were seeing.

****

“This is a favor for a friend?” Vittori asked.

“Yeah,” Lane said.

“Tell you what, we can’t officially open it, but I’ll do some digging whenever I can. See if anything comes up.”

“Thanks. Do you see anything about this case that might link it to Maya Pittman’s murder?”

Vittori considered this, taking another sip of his coffee. “We looked at the evidence, tried to find a link, but although there were similarities, there weren’t enough to tie them together. Pittman’s arms were crossed over her chest, which was odd, but with there being twenty-three years between the murders, they decided that was just a coincidence. Best suspect in Pittman’s killing was her teacher… also her lover.” His lip curled with disgust. “Couldn’t get enough to make a case, but we’re still keeping an eye on him. His sperm was found on the victim, but there was also sperm from a young boy she dated from school. And, an unknown.” He shook his head. “Girl got around for such a tender age. But, then, that’s the way things are these days.”

“Who worked the old cases?”

Vittori once more consulted the file. “Same guys worked both Carthage and Broussard. Mc Clung and Ramirez.”

“You know ‘em?”

“McClung. He retired a few years back. Okay cop, but not the most vigilant. Kind that’ll cut corners when he can.”

“As likely to close a case as to solve it?”

“Pretty much sums him up.”

Lane’s phone rang and he held up a finger to Vittori. “Hold on a sec.” Into the phone, he said, “Brody.”

“I’m headin’ in, partner. Get anything on the obits yet?”

“Nada.”

“Shit. What about the song titles? Lab reports on the paint?”

“Nothing yet,” Lane said, sighing in frustration.

Tony echoed his sigh. “All right, then. I’ll be there soon.”

Lane hung up and looked at Vittori. “Sorry. Current case is starting to make us a little crazy.”

“No problem. Mine have all been around for a while. Not a lot cooking. Not like the fresh ones. Still, this Broussard thing. Kind of tugs at you, you know?”

Lane nodded, his attention going back to the Des Moines paper. His eyes locked on an obit near the end of the list.

“I’ll be damned,” he whispered.

“I know. Shame. Little girl like that. Never getting the guy. Dirty, rotten shame.”

Lane didn’t acknowledge him. His eyes once more scanned the obit and his blood chilled. It wasn’t a date that caught his eye, but a name. Two names, actually.

The obituary read, Adam Utley and Tabitha Carrington passed away unexpectedly and violently on November 11th. As they loved together, they died together. Services to be held at Sausalito Funeral Home.

Utley most likely wasn’t the killer. Or, if he was, it would be a murder/suicide. Either way, they needed to find him and Tabitha Carrington. And they needed to do it quickly. According to the obit, the two of them would die today.

“Sorry,” he told Vittori, “Got something breaking on a case.”

“No problem. I’ll get out of your way. I’ll let you know if anything comes up on Broussard.”

“Kramer,” Lane called out, “I need you to check out a residence.” He gave him Utley’s name and a brief rundown of what had developed. “Don’t know the address. Look it up. I’m heading over to the newspaper.”

Lane called Tony’s cell. “You here yet?”

“Almost. What’s up?”

Lane explained seeing the obit. “Kramer is on his way to Utley’s. I’ll head down and meet you in the parking lot. We’ll go to the Chronicle.”

Lane took the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. Tony was in the parking lot when he got outside.

“What about the funeral?” Tony asked when Lane slid into the passenger seat. “Does it list where?”

“Sausalito funeral home. Mean anything?”

Tony shook his head. “Nothing.”

They pulled out onto the street while Lane dialed the newspaper’s number. A recorded voice answered, “You have reached the offices of The Northland Chronicle. Please say the department you want when you hear it.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lane muttered.

“Did you say classifieds?” the voice asked.

Lane let out a breath. “No,” he said clearly, loudly.

Tony looked over at him and raised his brows. Lane shook his head. If he explained, the voice might send him to Antarctica.

“I’m sorry,” the voice continued. “Please say the department when you hear it.” It then began listing the departments. Lane didn’t know which one would get him to Utley, so he said, “Operator,” into the phone.

“Please hold for an operator,” the voice, eager to please, said.

Lane held for an operator, but before a human came on the line, they’d reached the Chronicle.