We spent the next two hours reviewing footage from the few stores that had cameras facing the shelter’s parking lot. The results were a bust. Not a single resident had left the shelter after the staff ended their workday. We saw the late-night guard arrive, and minutes later, Mr. Evans from the second shift exited the building, walked to his car, and drove away.
“So, back to the precinct?” Frank asked.
I rubbed my forehead, feeling a headache coming on and hoping to nip it in the bud. “Yeah, I guess so. We’ve got nothing to hold Tammy on, damn it.”
Frank turned the key in the ignition, and we sped away. A late night at my desk was in my immediate future.
Back in the bullpen, we tossed around our thoughts to the rest of the team. Kip’s pencil tapped against his desk, causing me to turn his way.
“Obviously, there’s something on your mind. Go ahead and spill.”
He shook his head. “Well, there’s no evidence that Tammy was responsible for Trey’s death since she didn’t leave the building last night, so why did she make up a false timeline to begin with? She was following Trevor for a reason, meaning she knew him or knew of him. Is there a chance that she’s actually having someone else kill people? Does Tammy have a kill list, and if she does, how is she funding the murders?”
I raised my brow. “Damn good questions, and ones we need to figure out. We don’t know if Tammy has a boyfriend or a like-minded acquaintance, and she’d never admit it even if she does. She has no family we can talk to since she was raised in foster care.” I pointed at Frank and asked him to call Mr. Evans at the shelter. “Tell him we need copies of Tammy’s guest visits and calls to her room since the day she arrived there.”
Frank cut in. “But Marie Booth—”
“I don’t care what Marie Booth said. I want to see documentation of it.” I glanced at the wall clock. “Yep, it’s after four o’clock so Mr. Evans is already working. Don’t let him give you a song and dance either about having to clear it with Marie. He emails it to us, or we’ll have to go in with a warrant and tear the place apart. Somebody is hiding something, and we need to find out who that is and what they’re hiding.”
Frank grabbed the receiver off his desk phone and pinned it between his ear and shoulder while he looked up the number for the guard’s direct line at the shelter. I told him to press Speakerphone before Ken picked up on the other end, and I recognized the man’s voice as soon as he answered.
“A New Life women’s shelter, Mr. Evans speaking.”
“Ken, it’s Detective Mills.”
“Yes, Detective Mills. What can I do for you?”
“We have a favor to ask. Can you help us?”
“I’ll do my best.” He chuckled. “But I guess that depends on what it is.”
“Makes sense, but it’s a simple ask. All we need are copies of the in-and-out guest and call logs since Tammy moved to the shelter.”
“Um… I don’t know about that.”
Ken waffled, so I took over. “Mr. Evans, it’s Detective McCord. Is there a problem emailing those records to us? You don’t have anything to hide, do you?”
“Not at all, but you know how I feel about my job, Detective McCord. I can’t do anything to jeopardize it. I’m only paid hourly as a guard, and without the administrator’s approval… I just don’t know. The ladies here expect a certain amount of privacy.”
“Okay, then, I’ll go ahead and call a judge for a warrant. As long as we have that, we may as well go through the entire shelter and get it done once and for all. I’m sure Marie Booth won’t mind, and you’d be off the hook.”
Ken cursed under his breath. “Yeah, right. She’d have a fit and say something about it traumatizing the residents. What exactly do you need it for?”
I made light of his question. “Tammy couldn’t remember who she’s had as visitors or callers over the last two months. It’s just a way for us to get in touch with other people and question them about her husband’s death. She’s as much as given us permission, and we thought the logbook would help refresh her memory, that’s all. It isn’t anything that would really need to go past the administrator.”
A deep sigh came through the phone line—a good sign. He was about to cave in.
“I suppose I can do that. As long as Tammy okayed it, I mean.”
“And she did.”
“Okay, go ahead and tell me your email address.”
I gave it to Ken and waited. It took thirty minutes for the documents to come through, but when I clicked on the attachments, I was disappointed. Tammy’s only visitor had been her neighbor, Nancy Bingham, and she’d stopped in three times. There were notes about how Dwayne had tried to enter the shelter but was never permitted access. The phone logs reflected that. Her neighbor was the only caller.
I leaned back in my chair, stared at the ceiling, and pressed my temples. I was running out of ideas. My thoughts returned to the latest note. It had read, “I’m righting the wrongs, one sinner at a time.” It was as if the killer was the moral enforcer, a fixer in a way, and wanted to clear the city of wrongdoers—the sinners. I wondered what made the killer think that way. Had they been wronged at some time? It was the only explanation, and the notes led me to believe it was true.
After pushing back my chair, I tipped my head at Frank. “Come on.”
“Where to?”
“Downstairs. I want Tammy to write something for us in block letters. Remember, Mike analyzed the earlier notes, and he confirmed that they were written by the same author. Every A was open at the top. The latest note found in Trey’s pocket didn’t have the word was in its message, but it did have two A’s. If Tammy was the author, those A’s should have open tops like the others.”
“Sure, it’s worth a shot.” Frank rose from his chair.
I scanned the bullpen. “Has anyone heard back about DNA found on the envelopes?”
“Yeah, that was a bust,” Henry said. “The killer must have used water and a sponge. No DNA found on either envelope.”
I groused. “That figures.” It still made me wonder why Tammy had never received an envelope in the mail. It also told me that Trey’s murderer was lying in wait, and the killing was a preplanned event. Trey didn’t have a spouse to mail an envelope to, and that was why the note was already written and shoved in his pocket. The fact that Tammy had followed him that very day still led me to think she was somehow involved. I didn’t believe in coincidences—especially ones that led to murder.
I grabbed a notepad and a pen and headed out the door.
“Hold up, partner.” Frank stopped me in the hallway.
“What?”
“We need to have something planned for her to write—you know, something unrelated to the case. We don’t want to show her our hand.”
I scratched my head as I thought about Frank’s comment. “Yeah, that’s true.” I pulled the notepad and pen from my pocket. “What should we have her write?”
Frank raised his brows. “How about something easy, like her address? The house is on South Princeton Avenue and West Swann Street in Fuller Park. Let’s tell her to write the full address normally, in block letters, and in cursive. She doesn’t need a reason why.”
“Yeah, okay, I’m fine with that, and there are several A’s in the address that we can compare with the ones on the other notes.”
We continued on to our lower level and asked Bill to bring Tammy to the first interview room. That was our last hope for finding something before we had to turn her loose. Still, she could be smart enough to know what we were up to and alter the way she wrote. I gave that warrant more thought. There was a good chance that we’d find plenty of notes handwritten by Tammy in her house or in her room at the shelter, and I’d address that issue if the investigation ended up going in that direction.