Monday, November 18, 8:20 a.m.
Macy concentrated on her gait. One step. Two step. Ramsey was watching and no doubt second-guessing his decision to give her a try.
When she pushed through the doors of her building, her shoulders relaxed, and she took a deep breath. She passed through security and walked to her office in the basement.
She hated the windowless space. It was a reminder of her Texas screwup and a glimpse into her future if she didn’t crack the case in Deep Run. The possibility of doing real work was exhilarating, and she was anxious to grab what she needed and get the hell out into the field.
“Macy, have a look at this.”
Macy turned to the young woman sitting in front of a computer screen. Andrea Jamison, or Andy to the basement dwellers, was a pleasant young woman who never minded hours in front of a computer screen double-checking or inputting data. Slightly round with brown hair and thick-framed glasses, Andy had a wicked sense of humor and, in a showdown of bar shots last weekend, had handily beaten Macy.
“What do you have?” Macy’s tone was unusually abrupt.
“Don’t we sound testy,” Andy said. “Did the boss man on the mountain reject your request to work with his team?”
Andy’s cubical was filled with pictures of her mom and dad and three older sisters who were all tall, slim, and married. There was also a collection of Star Trek figurines, which Andy had divided into the Originals, the Next Generation, and whatever nonsense incarnations had followed. Macy ignored Andy’s odd obsession with science fiction because she’d turned out to be pretty cool and dedicated to a job she did very well.
“He’s sending me to a small town called Deep Run,” Macy deadpanned.
Andy’s charm bracelet rattled as she swiveled around in her chair and folded her hands primly on her desk. “Do tell.”
Macy recapped the case details. “Now all I have to do is crack the case.”
“Just in time for the holidays?”
Macy glanced toward a paper turkey someone had pinned on a central bulletin board. “We agreed not to discuss the holidays.”
“Turkey time means family, which equals drama.” Andy turned toward her screen and typed in “Deep Run.” “I don’t have anything in my system from their sheriff’s department.”
“Not surprising, given the DNA wasn’t tested until a few weeks ago.”
“When you get down there and you’ve gone through the case files, fill out a ViCAP form and send it to me. I’ll have a look around. Serial offenders rarely stop unless they’re dead, injured, or imprisoned. And we know your guy isn’t in prison.”
A year ago, if someone had said she’d be filling out forms to catch bad guys, she’d have laughed. She still had her doubts, but she wouldn’t turn her nose up at more help. “Will do.”
“I’m serious, Macy. Get me the info. Police work isn’t all Serpico shit and dark alleys.”
“Serpico? Have you been streaming old movies again?”
Andy shrugged. “I’ve got a thing for the seventies right now. But I’m serious, Macy. Send me the stats.”
“I really will.” Macy turned to her desk and grabbed extra yellow legal pads, pens, and the picture she’d taken with her sisters before she’d left Texas. She hefted the backpack onto her shoulder. “I’ll see you next week.”
“No cowboy shit. Don’t forget your leg stretches. Be safe.”
“Roger, Mom.”
Nevada stood in front of the county board of supervisors panel in his uniform. His starched collar rubbed his skin and fueled his impatience as he stood beside six eager, fresh-faced kids from Valley High School’s National Honor Society. As a photographer snapped pictures, he forced a smile and held up the school’s newly awarded antilitter certificate.
As the kids smiled, Nevada’s thoughts drifted back to his visit to the Turner home yesterday. The purpose of the visit had been to notify Jeb Turner that the medical examiner had identified his daughter’s remains.
The instant Turner had opened his front door, his expression had shifted from mild curiosity to pain. The man had understood immediately why Nevada was there.
Tobi Turner hadn’t been Nevada’s first death notification, but as the old man had wept, he’d felt gutted and angry and prayed he could find the girl’s killer.
“Sheriff, can you hold the plaque a little higher?” the student photographer asked.
“Of course.” Nevada couldn’t remember the last time he’d been around kids who weren’t abused, beaten, or dead.
As the kid took a dozen more pictures, Nevada kept smiling. He wanted this dog-and-pony show over.
When the group finally broke up, he grabbed his gear, ready to change and get back to working the Turner case. The board of supervisor’s chairman, Sam Roche, cut off his exit. Sam was a retired university professor who’d settled in Deep Run and had been on the board five years.
“Sheriff Nevada, how’s your investigation going?” Sam asked.
“It’s progressing.”
Sam frowned and dropped his voice a notch. “The board is concerned about this case. The optics aren’t good. Who’s going to send their son or daughter to the local university or relocate a business in Deep Run if we can’t promise law and order?”
“Deputy Brooke Bennett and I have been in constant contact with the forensic lab in Roanoke, and I’ve also reached out to the FBI’s profiling team.”
“FBI?” Sam asked.
“If you want this case solved quickly, then we can’t ignore the truth. We had a serial offender who operated in this area in 2004.”
“What’re the chances that this person is still here?” Sam asked.
“I have no way of knowing,” Nevada replied. “I’m still trying to determine if we’ve identified all his victims.”
Sam held up a hand. “There could be more?”
The naive question would have been amusing if this weren’t so damn serious. “Not all women who are raped report the crime. Yes, there could be more.”
Sam rubbed a hand over his thinning gray hair. “The media is calling me for a comment. I’m not sure what to say.”
“I strongly advise you to not speak to them,” Nevada said. “The FBI agent will be here in a few hours, and she and I will coordinate communications to the public.”
“What about Greene?”
“What about him?” Nevada was still pissed about Greene’s inaction on the DNA kits. If the lazy, dumb son of a bitch had made an attempt to solve the rapes in the summer of ’04, he might have saved Tobi Turner’s life.
“I don’t want the FBI taking over the case,” Sam said. “I don’t need the world thinking we can’t manage our own problems.”
“The bureau doesn’t take over.” He’d never taken credit for the cases he’d solved. Instead, he’d always stood off to the side when local law enforcement had made an announcement to the media. Now Nevada was the local guy and was on the receiving end of the FBI’s help.
“Just stay on top of this.”
He would swallow every last bit of his pride and accept whatever help was offered to catch this killer. He owed that much to Tobi Turner and the rape victims. “I will.”
“You’ve chased killers like this before?” Sam asked.
“Too many.”
“I never thought we’d see something like that here.”
“No one does.”
Men like Sam ran for the board because they cared about economic development, ribbon cuttings, and policy meetings. They never bargained for high-profile rape and murder cases. “Keep me updated, Sheriff Nevada.”
“Will do, Supervisor Roche.” He strode out of the office and to his car. He checked his watch. A couple of hours left before Macy would arrive.
Back at the station, he entered through the side door and headed straight to his office. He closed the door and swapped the uniform for jeans, a light-blue collared shirt, and work boots he’d had for over a decade.
With the uniform back on its hanger behind the door, he scooped up the pile of pink message slips on his desk and made his way to Bennett’s office.
Brooke Bennett was tall and lean, with an athletic build. Black hair coiled into a bun at the base of her neck highlighted high cheekbones and bright brown eyes. He had heard she had been a track phenom in high school, but all that had gone by the wayside when she had become pregnant with her son. The event could have derailed her life, but she went on to earn her college degree and then had joined the sheriff’s department after graduation. She was a dedicated single mom. Her son, Matt, was by all accounts a good kid.
“How is the press release coming?” he asked.
“It’s ready.” Bennett’s gaze lingered on the screen another moment before she hit “Send” and looked up. “It’s printing now for you to review.”
The printer by her desk hummed and spat out the paper. The headline read GIRL MISSING FOR FIFTEEN YEARS FOUND. He wanted to keep a lid on this case for a couple more days, but the chances of a leak were too great. Dozens of cops had now put their hands on the case, and Turner wouldn’t, nor should he, be silent about the discovery of his daughter’s remains.
“When will the agent be here?” Bennett asked.
“Couple of hours.”
Bennett shifted in her seat. “You reached out to them quickly. And yet we’ve barely had a crack at the case ourselves.”
“You’re a solid investigator and a quick learner, but you’ve never worked a case like this before.”
“But you’ve worked dozens.”
“I have. And one of the reasons I asked for Agent Crow is because she’s very good with victims of sex crimes.”
Her mouth tightened in annoyance. “When the media finds out about the untested kits and links it to Tobi Turner, it’s going to be a shit storm.”
“Yes, it will.” He had never asked who in this department had tipped him and the media off about the kits, but he suspected it had been Bennett. Though he understood the reasoning behind the leak, future disclosures would not be forgiven. “Eventually I’ll confirm the connection but not yet.”
“They’re already saying we blew it.”
“Because we did. The heat is only going to get worse. Accept it.” He read the release. “Looks good. Issue the press release. Post it on social media. The world needs to know Tobi was found, but not the connection between the rapes and murder. Assume the killer is paying attention to us. He doesn’t need to see all our cards.”
Her brow furrowed, but she nodded. “Understood.”
He checked his watch. “I’m returning to the barn. I want to have a look at the place now that it’s quiet.”
When Sherman had opened that hay chute, Tobi Turner’s bones had scattered in a dozen directions. Every crack and crevice had been scoured by the state forensic team, who had been determined to find every fragment of bone and evidence. It had taken the better part of several hours for the team, working on hands and knees, to sift through the dirt and dust.
“Do you want me to come along?” Bennett asked.
“Not this time.”
“I want to learn from her.”
“And you will.”
Frustration flashed and vanished in the blink of an eye. “Before you go, I received a call about an hour ago from Martha Roberson. She believes her daughter, Debbie, is missing.”
He remembered Martha Roberson. She had campaigned against him and had gone so far as to suggest his bid for sheriff was a vendetta against Greene, who had arrested Nevada for trespassing as a teenager. “How old is Debbie Roberson?” he asked.
“Twenty-one.”
“Are there any risk factors?”
“No. She broke up with her boyfriend last year, but he is now married and living in Roanoke.”
“Is Martha worried about him?”
“No. But Martha insists Debbie is not the type to take off.” Bennett tapped a few keys on her keyboard, pulled up Debbie Roberson’s DMV picture, and turned the screen toward Nevada. Debbie was pretty with dark hair.
“Drive by Debbie’s house and have a look around. Let me know if you see a problem.”
“I’ll also speak to Debbie’s neighbors and see what they know.”
“Good.”
Nevada left during the lunch hour rush. When he had lived in Northern Virginia, this kind of traffic would have been considered laughable. But five months in Deep Run had lowered his tolerance. He caught himself cursing the four-car backup at the stop sign. “You’re losing your edge, Nevada.”
He worked his way free of the historic downtown area and drove west. After turning off the main road, he followed smaller country roads until he reached the washed-out gravel driveway to the barn.
He parked and, climbing out of his vehicle, stared up at the barn and a stunning backdrop of endless blue sky, white clouds, and orange leaves.
Places like this were perfect spots for teenagers to party. Greene had arrested Nevada in a setting very similar to this one. He had been fifteen and jacked by a football victory. With liquor stolen from his grandfather’s cabinet, he and his football buddies had sat under the full moon by his family’s barn and gotten plowed. Greene had come out of nowhere, arrested them, and tossed the lot in jail. His grandfather had waited until morning to bail him out.
When Nevada had become sheriff, he had pulled his case file and for the first time had learned Pop had filed the trespassing complaint with Greene. His grandfather could be a hard-ass, but when Nevada had needed a home, the old man had stepped up.
Nevada clicked on his flashlight and strode into the barn. The crime scene tape strung six days ago had drooped, and gusts of wind had tipped over several evidence tents marking the locations of the bones.
He cast his light toward the centuries-old hand-hewed ladder and the hayloft. A year ago, he might have theorized Tobi’s death had been an accident. Kids explored a barn and one fell. No one spoke up because they were afraid.
But DNA linked three rapes to Tobi’s death. He needed the medical examiner’s confirmation, but he would bet a year’s salary she was murdered.
How did the killer get Tobi up a wooden ladder? Though it was in good shape, carrying an unconscious or unwilling girl would have been damn near impossible.
Had Tobi’s killer forced her at gun- or knifepoint? Or had she gone willingly, never realizing what awaited her? A young, naive girl was ripe for the picking.
Nevada climbed the ladder Dave Sherman had left behind. Sherman was anxious to dismantle the barn, but Nevada refused to release the scene until Macy saw it.
Nevada couldn’t straighten to his full height of six foot three inches in the loft and was forced to duck slightly as he moved toward the chute.
The forensic team had swept the loft, searching for any evidence that explained Tobi’s death. They had found a knotted strand of red rope among the scattered bones on the first floor but nothing in the loft. Not surprising. Fifteen years erased a lot of evidence.
He stared down the now-three-sided shaft. He theorized the girl had been murdered up here. Best guess, this killing hadn’t been planned, had maybe been his first. After the adrenaline had eased, the killer had panicked. He had needed to dispose of Tobi, so he had tossed her pack and small body down the chute to avoid the ladder. Maybe the plan had been to take her somewhere else and bury her.
But the pack had wedged between the wooden walls, and the body hadn’t jostled it free. They had both gotten stuck.
Nevada walked toward the small window overlooking the valley behind the barn. This structure was off the beaten path, and he recalled the winter of 2004 had been bitterly cold. Her body wouldn’t have decomposed immediately, and anyone searching the barn wouldn’t have smelled death. No one had thought to look in the chute.
Had the killer panicked when Tobi’s body had jammed up? Had he worried when the volunteers combed the countryside? Had he been grateful for the cold? Had he returned to the barn?
Killing altered a person’s behavior. And Nevada hoped someone had noticed.