We sat at a table near the window in Roy’s Hometown Cafe. The red-checked tablecloth and fresh carnation in a small vase gave the restaurant a homey atmosphere. Patrons filled every table and booth while they enjoyed their dinner. The locals were right. The food was delicious, and we were both starving. As the waitress poured a second cup of coffee for each of us, my cell vibrated on the table.
I checked the screen. “It’s Lieutenant Taft. Hello, sir, anything new?” I pressed the volume button to quiet the call and mentioned I had him on speakerphone.
“Yes, Baxter County Sheriff’s Department just called. Bobby Mills and the artist have finished the sketch to the best of their ability. Granted, he’s giving us what he can, considering the man was in the woods and it wasn’t even fully daylight yet. Anyway, I gave them the chief’s email address, Jade. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all, sir, and he can forward the message to our emails later. I’m just anxious to see that sketch attachment and print out a handful of copies.”
“Okay, I’m on my way to the police department now.”
“Give us ten minutes. We’re just finishing our meal.”
J.T. took care of the dinner bill while I walked down the block to get the Jeep. Roy’s Hometown Cafe faced the main street that went through town and had only a small parking lot meant for employees. That evening was clear and comfortable, and the stars twinkled brilliantly. A slight breeze swept across my face, and I tucked my hair behind my ears out of habit. The Lake of the Ozarks region was beautiful and inviting, but a killer was nearby, and he needed to be apprehended quickly.
I pulled the Jeep up to the front of the restaurant, where J.T. waved to get my attention then climbed in. According to Lieutenant Taft, the police department was only a few blocks away.
Several minutes later, we entered the single-story redbrick building that looked to be the same size as a small ranch-style house. Osage Beach didn’t have a large police force, considering the town’s population was just over four thousand residents. As a normally quiet community, they probably didn’t have a lot of crime to deal with, either. I was told the chief had sent out most of his officers to check on the surveillance tapes, which I appreciated.
We approached the counter and asked for Chief Faring and Lieutenant Taft. The officer checked our credentials then directed us to the hallway on our right.
“They’re in the third room on the left, and they’re expecting you.”
J.T. gave the officer a nod of thanks, and we followed the hallway to that room. Inside, sitting at the conference table were Chief Faring, Lieutenant Taft, and likely half the police force—three officers.
J.T. and I entered the room and took two vacant seats.
“Okay,” I began, “what do we have?”
Chief Faring slid two printer paper–sized copies across the table. J.T. took one, and I grabbed the other.
“This is all Bobby Mills could give us?” I felt instantly deflated.
Lieutenant Taft spoke up. “It’s all he saw of the man, Jade. Sorry.”
The artist’s rendering of the man wasn’t any better than the actual surveillance tape. The face could be anyone. He had no outstanding features, the image was darkened because of the time of day, and the man was walking in a forward direction, perpendicular to Bobby Mills. The sketch of his face, mostly from the side and half covered with a cap, left us with little more than the dark, grainy videotape had.
“Anything from the storefront cameras leading into town?” I was hopeful.
Chief Faring spoke up. “The two officers that took the retail shops nearest the downtown area said they saw nothing.”
“So that’s telling us he didn’t walk all the way into the downtown area. Is there another busy street that leads out of town?”
The chief nodded and told us several officers still hadn’t reported in. They were checking all the stores near Speedy Time and beyond, until they reached the main intersection going northeast through town.
“If he caught a ride, or intended to, that would be the road to take. It’s State Highway 54 that dissipates before Springfield, Missouri, but it intersects with Interstate 70, which is a main route for truckers. Interstate 70 goes through St. Louis, and there’s a half dozen other interstates in the same area.”
I groaned with the realization that our killer could actually be anywhere. If the man that exited the park was indeed him, he had a twelve-hour head start on us.
The four of us looked toward the door when it opened.
Chief Faring tipped his head toward a few empty seats, and the officers that had just reported back sat down. He looked from face to face. “Anything?”
Officer Stewart grinned and slid a flash drive across the table to the chief. “We got him on surveillance climbing into the back of a pickup truck.”
I perked up. “Thank God. Let’s check it out.”
The chief inserted the stick into the port on the side of the laptop that sat on the table. We crowded around the computer, and I held my breath as the video played. We saw that same man standing at the intersection of Main Street and Highway 54.
“What store caught this image?” I asked, trying to get a perspective of the exact location.
“This video is from Osage Auto Repair,” Officer Stewart said. “They recently installed that camera after a few of the customers’ cars in the lot were tampered with. Their system has a pretty wide range to cover the entire parking lot. I think that’s the only reason we were able to capture the man standing at the corner.”
We watched the scene unfold in front of us. The man with the backpack approached a truck that idled at the intersection, waiting for the light to turn green. I looked at the time stamp—2:47 a.m. It appeared on the video that the stranger spoke to the driver at his window and then climbed into the bed of the truck. When the light turned, the vehicle headed northeast on Highway 54.
“Could you make out the plate number on that truck?” J.T. asked.
“Don’t need to,” the chief said. “That truck belongs to Doc Wilson.”
“Doc Wilson?”
“Yep, and that’s probably why he’s out at that time of night. I’d say he’s heading home after making a house call. He’s the main vet in the area and assists in births for horses, cattle, and the like. There could be any number of reasons he was out and about at nearly three in the morning.”
“And he doesn’t worry about picking up strangers?” I asked, somewhat perplexed.
“Nah, nobody is a stranger to Doc Wilson. He trusts everyone.”
“We need to speak to him immediately, in person,” J.T. said.
The chief jerked his head at Officer Stewart. “Make the call, Tom.”
A half hour later, joined by the lieutenant and the chief of police, J.T. and I entered the warm, welcoming farmhouse of Dr. Matthew Wilson. The chief made the introductions as we entered the home and shook hands with the doctor and his wife, Maryanne. She led us to the large family room, where several couches faced each other with a coffee table in between. A fire crackled in the floor-to-ceiling stacked-stone fireplace.
“Would anyone care for coffee?” Maryanne asked as we took seats.
We gratefully declined. We had far too much to do that night and needed to stay on track. A cup of coffee on a comfortable couch with a roaring fire to my right would put me in a state of relaxation that I didn’t have time for. I wanted to hear everything the doctor could remember about the man that climbed into the back of his truck.
“Dr. Wilson, why don’t you start at the point where the man approached your vehicle?” I said.
“Sure thing, ma’am. The light was red, so I was stuck there, anyway. The man stepped off the sidewalk and headed toward me. I saw the backpack and figured he was about to either ask for directions or a ride. He knocked on the window, and I rolled it down.”
“Then what?” J.T. pulled out a notepad from his inner jacket pocket.
“He wanted to know where that road would take him, and I said northeast up toward St. Louis. He asked how far I was going, and I told him only five miles, where I’d turn off to go home. He asked if he could catch a ride that far.”
“And that’s when he climbed in the back?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dr. Wilson, you’re probably the only person we’ve found so far that can give us an up-close, detailed description of the man. We really need your help.”
His forehead creased when he furrowed his brows. “That sounds serious.”
The lieutenant spoke up. “It’s very serious, Doc. The agents need to know everything you can remember about him.”
“We also need you to work with a sketch artist. We have to get this man’s face on the news as soon as feasibly possible,” I said. “It’s imperative you do that tonight, but let’s get the general details first. Lieutenant, can you call the sketch artist and get that set up for, say, an hour from now?”
“Sure thing, Agent Monroe, and Doc, you’ll have to come to the sheriff’s department to do that.”
The doctor agreed. “No problem, Lieutenant Taft.”
J.T. continued to write. “Whenever you’re ready, sir.”
“Well, the first thing I noticed was his height. At the truck window, he had to lean down to talk to me. I’d put him well over six feet.”
J.T. wrote that down. “Could you tell how he was built?”
Doc shook his head. “I’d only be guessing. That loose windbreaker and heavy looking backpack hid his build.”
J.T. asked another round of questions. “Do you remember the color of the windbreaker and if there was any writing on it?”
The doctor rubbed his forehead, as if in thought. “Sorry I’m not much help. It was late, and I was tired.”
“Take your time. It’s okay.” I gave him a smile, and we waited.
“My best guess would be navy blue or black. I didn’t see any writing on it, but I did notice the left sleeve had a long cut in it.”
“Like a rip from walking through the woods?” Chief Faring asked.
“No, not a rip. I’m a doctor, remember? It was definitely a cut. No shredded or jagged edges. A clean slice.”
“Okay.” The Neko Te came to mind. The killer could have accidentally cut his own jacket while the women fought for their lives. “The backpack was dark too, correct?”
“I’d say it was black. It was large, like the type people wear when they’re out for weeks at a time.”
“And you said it looked heavy? How did you determine that?”
“The straps seemed to ride high on his shoulders, as if there was a lot of weight in the back.”
“Good observation,” Lieutenant Taft said.
I leaned forward to face Doc, who sat on the opposite couch. “Did you notice any writing on his cap?”
“Oh yeah. I was eye level with it since he had to lean down to talk to me. The cap had a logo for a trucking company on the front.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” the lieutenant said.
J.T. tapped his notepad with the pen, clearly ready to write down whatever came out of the doctor’s mouth. “Think hard. This is really important.”
“I can’t remember the name, or maybe I just wasn’t that interested. The town was written under the logo, though. Let me think, I know it was somewhere in Arkansas. Connor, maybe. No, it was Conway.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, Conway was the town.”
J.T. wrote that down.
It could be our first solid lead. “Perfect.” I took a deep breath then continued. “Okay. Let’s move on to his features. Age range?”
“My best guess would be late thirties, early forties.”
“Scars or anything that stood out on his face?”
“No, didn’t see any, but the hat hid most of his features.”
“Pleasant looking or ugly?”
The doctor laughed. “I’m a man, Agent Monroe. I don’t focus on that.”
“Sorry, how about his hair?”
He nodded, as if something came to mind. “That baseball cap covered most of his hair. All I saw were a few strands along his jacket collar, but what I did see looked greasy.”
That made sense to me if he was on the prowl and hadn’t taken the time to bathe. “So you couldn’t see the color or style?”
“No, but I’m sure it wasn’t light, and he wasn’t bald.”
“Thank you, Doc,” J.T. said while he wrote that information down.
“Okay, we’re going to head over to the sheriff’s department in a few minutes. Just one more question. How did he speak? Was there a regional accent, a dialect, and did he speak intelligently? What was the pitch of his voice like, and what did he actually say to you?” I asked.
“Well, he didn’t sound like me, so I’d say he wasn’t from the area. He sounded like someone from the Midwest.”
Chief Faring chuckled. “Doc, this is the Midwest.”
“Not the same. Once you get to southern Illinois, the regional accent changes. His voice sounded like northern Midwest, and I’d only know that because Maryanne’s family is from Michigan. He only asked where Highway 54 would take him and if he could catch a ride as far as I was going. He seemed interested when I said the semis travel that highway day and night. He wasn’t rough or gruff sounding, but he didn’t use big words, either. Just sounded like a regular guy with a somewhat deep voice.”
“Then what happened?”
“Then I dropped him off at the intersection of Highway 54 and the road that turns west to my house. He climbed out of my truck, and I drove home and went to bed.”
J.T. closed his notepad. “I think that should do it for now, and don’t wash your truck.”
“Excuse me?”
“It will have to be dusted for fingerprints. Forensics will dust the entire bed of the truck, especially the tailgate, probably the driver’s side window too.”
Lieutenant Taft spoke up. “I can arrange to have that done while Doc’s working with the sketch artist, Agent Harper. That should speed things up significantly.”
“Great idea, lieutenant. Let’s head out. Jade and I will follow you, and Doc can follow us in his truck. Once the sketch is complete, we’ll compare it to the one we have from Bobby Mills, and if they’re a reasonable match, we’ll air both of them on the news along with the man’s general height and weight. Hopefully, his prints are in the system. We also need to check on trucking companies in Conway, Arkansas, once we have a solid description of this man.”
“Hold up, who’s Bobby Mills? Is there more I should know about the guy I gave a ride to?”
We stood to leave, and J.T. responded. “Since it’s an ongoing investigation, all I can say is we appreciate your help, and if we’re lucky, we’ll be able to get something on the ten o’clock news. You’ll understand the gist of things if you watch that segment. Shall we?”