“I got this one,” I said to J.T. as I popped the last piece of bacon in my mouth, wiped my face with the napkin, and walked to the counter to pay for breakfast. We needed to be at the sheriff’s department by eight a.m.
We both took a coffee to go and climbed into the Jeep. J.T. drove while I sat back and read through the pages of notes I had jotted down since yesterday morning.
“You know, it doesn’t make sense.”
J.T. glanced my way. “What doesn’t?”
“Why would a trucker waste his time with killing people in state parks? He’d have to stash his truck somewhere, go in on foot, and do the deeds. Don’t truckers have to stick to delivery schedules? Plus, you’d think he’d have ample opportunity just by picking up hitchhikers or hookers along his route.”
“You do have a point. I think most cross-country trucks have tracking devices on them too. The drivers are only allowed to put in a certain amount of hours a day behind the wheel, and dispatch needs to know where they are at all times. It’s for the safety of the driver and the cargo.”
“I guess we have to determine who that man is and find out his route and where his next stop is supposed to be. We’ll be one step ahead of him and waiting to pick him up.”
J.T. smirked. “If only things were that easy in the real world.”
“This is the real world, and why wouldn’t it go down exactly like that?”
“Wait and see. I have a few more years under my belt than you do. Nothing ever goes according to plan.”
J.T. pulled into the parking lot at the sheriff’s department, and we went inside. We met again in the same office we had used yesterday. Lieutenant Taft was talking on the phone when we entered, and he motioned for us to take a seat then pointed at the carafe of coffee and cups at the center of the table.
We sat, filled our cups, and waited until his phone call had ended. Moments later, the lieutenant hung up, and we got an earful.
“This isn’t good, not good at all. The owner of Millstead Trucking talked to the deputies about a half hour ago. He said their trucks and drivers had always been accounted for and on schedule until early last week. When one of their drivers went off course and never called in on Tuesday, they tracked the truck to the Bull Shoals-White River State Park area. Actually the truck was found out of fuel and parked behind Pine Lodge, less than a mile from the park. Nobody has spoken to or seen the driver since.”
“What did they do with the semi?”
“They had another trucker pick it up and make the delivery. I guess they’ve been using it since.”
“So that driver could be the killer. Maybe some sort of trigger sent him off the rails. His wife could have called him and said she wanted a divorce. Maybe he witnessed a horrific crash that he couldn’t get out of his head, or maybe it’s something work related.”
“Or none of the above, Jade. The driver wasn’t married, and he didn’t fit the description of the man we have on video. They think he went AWOL for whatever reasons unknown to them, and nobody has called in a missing persons report on the guy. I didn’t get the feeling the owner thought a crime had been committed.”
I added, “But if he isn’t married and is an over-the-road trucker, chances are nobody even knows he’s missing.”
“That’s a valid point.” The lieutenant checked the notes he had just scribbled down on paper during the phone call. “According to Millstead Trucking’s owner, the driver, Fred West, was fifty-one years old, skinny, had short gray hair, and stood around five foot ten. That doesn’t sound like our guy. What do you think, J.T.?”
“I think Faulkner County law enforcement needs to get a description and a photo of Fred West on the air. Sounds like he lived and worked in their county, and it’s their duty to investigate what happened to him. Who knows, he could very well be a victim too.”
I slumped but had to agree with J.T.’s assessment. “And nobody thought to fingerprint the truck. So, if the driver was a victim, the killer took his hat and wore it to camouflage his face. That’s just wrong on so many levels.”
The lieutenant rose, cracked his neck, and headed for the door. “I’ll make the call to Faulkner County. Why don’t you two put something together for the news broadcasts?”
“Lieutenant?”
He turned back and faced me. “Yes, Jade.”
“What was said to the families of the three murdered girls from Lake of the Ozarks State Park?”
He jammed his fists into his pants pockets and groaned. “That was a tough one. My detectives notified the families late yesterday afternoon and only said the girls had been killed, possibly by a bear. We don’t want to instill fear in the community until we have facts and preferably somebody in custody. For now, the girls will remain at the morgue.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant.”
He nodded, smacked the doorframe, and walked out.
J.T. reached for the carafe. “More coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.” I had still shots from the videos of the man exiting Bull Shoals-White River State Park at the guard gate and the man exiting Lake of the Ozarks State Park at the side of the road, and I placed them side by side. I also printed out several shots from the video feed at Osage Auto Repair.
J.T. handed me my warmed cup and took a seat at my side. “Okay, you talk, and I’ll write.”
“Ready?”
He nodded with his pen in his hand and a legal pad on the table.
“We’ve concluded it’s the same man in all the videos, so that puts him at six foot three to six foot four. We’ve agreed he may be closing in on two hundred seventy-five pounds. That would make him strong enough to overpower most people, especially if it’s a blitz attack.” I took a sip of coffee and continued. “Doc Wilson thought he was in his late thirties to early forties. He’s an opportunist in the way he kills people and the way he gets from location to location. He either gains people’s trust, meaning he knows how to charm ladies and men, or he sneaks up on them in the night when they’re vulnerable and unsuspecting. He must be hitchhiking, and when he’s lucky enough to catch a ride with a trucker, he steals their vehicle and probably their wallet, runs the truck until it’s out of fuel, then moves on to the next victim. He lives off the land and other people’s money and has nowhere in particular he needs to be. He’s resourceful and smart, the most dangerous kind of criminal.” I looked one more time at the composite sketch that Connie had drawn. I wrinkled my forehead and rubbed my brows.
J.T. noticed and stopped writing. “Is something bothering you?”
“I wish he wasn’t wearing that damn hat. This would have been a perfect image, the best we have, but half of his face is shadowed. There’s something about the part of his face we do see that’s bugging me.”
“Well, we sure don’t have anything to compare it to. That guard shack photo would have been great, but the brim of the cap hid his entire face.”
I shook it off. “Yeah, I know. Let’s show the lieutenant what we have before we call the news stations. Maybe they’ll run this segment along with the missing trucker’s piece. We know damn well they’re related.”