Chapter 161: Liam Cole

The photo Winston had found was printed on a single sheet of paper, slightly off-center because the precinct's printer had an opinion about margins that nobody had bothered to correct. It sat on the table between Winston and Pulaski like a third party to the conversation.

Oliver's face, tagged as Daniel.

Pulaski had looked at it for a long time when Winston brought it in. Not with surprise exactly—more with the expression of someone watching a thing they'd already suspected take a definite shape.

"We ran the tag," Pulaski said now. He had his own folder, thicker than last time. "The account it linked to was inactive but not deleted. Created seven years ago, used sporadically for about two years, then dormant. The name on the account was Daniel Sepetys."

Winston looked at the photo. "Sepetys."

"Not his real name either, as far as we can tell." Pulaski opened the folder. "We went further back. Ran the social security number, cross-referenced it with physical descriptions, and ran it through a few other databases. We found a sealed juvenile record. The name on the record is Liam Cole."

Winston said it quietly, more to hear it than anything else. "That's him?"

"We believe so."

"How old was he in the record?"

"Sixteen." Pulaski turned a page. "The record is sealed, so I can't give you specifics. What I can tell you is that after the record, Liam Cole essentially stops existing. No further documented activity under that name. No school enrollment, no employment, no tax filings, nothing." He looked up. "Then, roughly three years later, Oliver Clarke appears: social security number, rental history, community college enrollment."

"He built it," Winston said.

"Piece by piece. Whoever helped him do it knew what they were doing."

Winston sat back. The chair made a sound. "Okay. So we have three names. Liam Cole, Daniel Sepetys, and Oliver Clarke. What connects them besides the face?"

Pulaski turned another page. He slid a document across the table. Winston looked at it. A missing persons report. Standard format, a photograph in the upper right corner—a man, mid-forties, heavyset, photographed somewhere casual, someone's backyard, maybe.

"Raymond Chu," Pulaski said. "Reported missing three years ago. The last known location was a neighborhood in Columbus, Ohio. He lived alone, worked at a logistics company, and had a history of—" he paused, choosing the word—"predatory behavior toward young women in his building. Complaints on record, nothing prosecuted."

Winston looked at the photograph. "And."

"And Raymond Chu's neighbor reported seeing him talking regularly with a young man in the weeks before he disappeared, giving a description," Pulaski tapped the document. "The description matches Oliver Clarke."

The room was very quiet.

"That's one," Pulaski said. "We found two more."

He laid them out one at a time. Winston looked at each photograph. Three men, different ages, different cities, and different faces. The only things they shared were the complaints on their records — things that had been reported and noted and then quietly absorbed by a system that had other priorities — and a connection, however brief, to a young man whose description stayed consistent across all three accounts.

Winston had thought about Oliver approximately eight thousand times, and he was only realizing now that thinking about someone and knowing them were not the same at all.

"These three," Winston said. "They're dead."

"We believe so. No bodies were recovered in two of the cases. The third—" Pulaski checked his notes—"was found fourteen months after the disappearance in a wooded area outside Columbus. Cause of death undetermined due to the condition of the remains."

Winston pressed both hands flat on the table.

"The volunteer work," he said.

Pulaski looked at him.

"Oliver mentioned volunteer work. He was vague about where." Winston looked at the photographs on the table.

Raymond Chu and two others whose names he'd already read and would not forget. He thought about Oliver's desk again, the coffee mug with the ring inside it. He'd been in the office last week, and the mug was still there. Nobody had moved it. He was going to go in tomorrow and put it in a box.

"There's something else," Pulaski said.

Winston looked at him.

Pulaski slid one more document across. This one was different from the others — not a missing persons report. A shelter intake record, partially redacted. The shelter name was visible at the top.

"We've been in contact with the shelter where we believe the Daniel Sepetys alias was used," Pulaski said. "A volunteer by that name worked there, starting about a month before Mr. George Harvey disappeared."

Winston looked at the intake record. A name was circled at the bottom. "George Harvey."

"George Harvey is a shelter employee with two prior complaints related to his conduct with minors. Nothing was prosecuted."

"Same pattern," Winston said.

"Same pattern. The FBI is being brought in," Pulaski said. "Today or tomorrow."

"Okay."

"You'll be asked to talk to them."

"I know." Winston gathered the documents into a rough pile and then realized they weren't his to gather and flattened his hands on the table instead. "I'll talk to them."

Pulaski nodded. He began collecting the papers himself, sliding them back into the folder with care.

"Can I ask you something?" Winston said.

Pulaski looked up.

"Del. Delilah Teller. Based on what you've seen and what you know about how he operates?" He paused. "Do you think she's in danger from him specifically? Or is she just—is she caught up in this?"

Pulaski held his gaze for a moment.

"Based on the pattern," Pulaski said slowly, "his previous targets were people he assessed as problematic, for lack of a better term—people he'd identified as causing harm. Ms. Teller doesn't fit that profile."

"So she's safe from him."

"I didn't say that." Pulaski closed the folder. "I said she doesn't fit the profile of his targets. That's different from safe." He stood. "People who get close to him occupy a different category. We don't have enough data on what happens to people in that category long-term."

Winston nodded and stood. He picked up his jacket from the back of the chair. At the door, he stopped.

"The name," he said. "Liam Cole. Did you find anything about who he was before that? Before the juvenile record?"

Pulaski considered it. "Some. Not much. A father. No mother on record after a certain point. The father had his own record, a different kind."

Winston didn't ask what kind. He thought he already knew.

He walked out of the police station into the afternoon. He pulled out his phone and opened Oliver's contact. The number that now rang nowhere. He stared at it for a moment.

Then he put the phone away, started the car, and drove.

He went to the office. He found a box in the supply room. He went to Oliver's desk, picked up the coffee mug, looked at the dried ring inside it one more time, and put it in the box.

Then he taped the box shut.