With lightning speed, I typed into the search bar the city and state shown on Ross Matson’s driver’s license—Anniston, Alabama. According to the online map, Birmingham was about dead center in the state, and Anniston was east of there, about halfway between Birmingham and Atlanta. Ross had been careful not to rent the vehicle in the city where he lived. I continued on and typed the entire address into Google then clicked on Street View.
Rue slid a chair next to my desk and leaned in while I waited for the address to come up.
“What the hell is this? That can’t be right.”
I looked back at the address I’d typed in then double-checked what was shown on his driver’s license. They matched, but what I was looking at on screen was a run-down deserted warehouse.
Rue pointed out that the last update on that site was in 2019.
“Since it was such a depressed neighborhood, maybe houses have been built there over the last few years.”
“Possibly, but we need to know that for sure.” I jerked my chin toward Devon’s computer. “Pull up the phone number for the Anniston, Alabama, police department and give them a call. We need to know for sure if this is a legitimate address or not. They, if anyone, would have that information, or they can have a patrol unit drive by to see.”
I waited as Rue made the call. He set his desk phone to Speaker, and I listened in. After going through the professional courtesies between police departments, Rue rattled off the address and explained that on our end, all we saw was a deserted warehouse without any homes in the area.
“That’s correct, Detective Rue. That area of Anniston is depressed and deserted. What you’re looking at is exactly the way that street still looks. I can’t think of any areas of our city that have newer developments going up.”
Rue thanked the officer and hung up. “That son of a bitch has a fake driver’s license. It’s more than likely his name isn’t Ross Matson and he doesn’t live in Anniston or even Alabama at all.”
I groaned. “Back to square one.” Our only option was to alert all car rental agencies in Savannah and say that if a Ross Matson came in to rent a vehicle, to stall him then call the nearest police station.
It was time to inform Royce of the latest news, a task I wasn’t looking forward to. Every time I thought we had a lead, it disappeared. All we could do was put the man’s face on the news channels and wait to see if anyone recognized him. For all we knew, the man could be local but had driven to Alabama to rent a car, the perfect way to throw law enforcement off his trail.
I still hadn’t shown Marie the enhanced photo of him, but there was no doubt in my mind that he was the same man we were trying to apprehend.
With slumped shoulders, I headed down the hallway to Royce’s office. Our hour of elation had deflated as quickly as a kid’s birthday balloons.
I gave the door two raps, and Royce called out to come in.
“Hey, Boss, got a minute?”
“Sure do.” Royce said. “Have a seat. Why the gloomy face?”
I sighed. “Turns out that Ross Matson and his address in Alabama aren’t real. The man is using a fake ID. I pulled up the address, and it’s an abandoned warehouse. Rue even called the Anniston PD, and they said that neighborhood is still exactly like it looks on the satellite and street view.”
“Clever killer. So, we’re dealing with a murderer who is professional and covers his tracks well.”
“Exactly.”
“The question is why? There weren’t any connections between Kim and Mr. and Mrs. Grimes.” Royce rubbed his forehead. “At first, I thought he killed John Keller too. Have you spoken to Tapper?”
“Nope.”
“Well, I have, and he confirmed that the cause of death was the beating. There weren’t any bullet wounds in John’s body.”
“Meaning he isn’t good for John’s murder. The kill method was entirely different.”
“I know. For now, notify John’s next of kin, make some calls from the contacts on his cell, and have Bentley and Lawrence pitch in. That has to be done so we can return our focus to the killer.”
I stood and walked to the door.
“We’ll get him, Mitch, but we might end up with more dead bodies before we do.”
“Right, but it isn’t going to be easy since we have no idea what the motivation is for his actions.” As I headed to my office, I stopped in by Lawrence and Bentley. “Hey, Royce wants you to pitch in on calling John Keller’s contacts.” I groaned. “And I have the pleasure of calling his next of kin.”
“Should we all work together in the conference room?”
“Yeah, good idea. We’ll divide up the names and start calling. We need to know if anyone had a beef with John and what he was like. His phone contacts would probably know that the best. Bring your laptops, and I’ll get Rue.”
Before going to the conference room, I printed out all of John’s contacts. There were fifty-one—a sizable number. Rue, Bentley, and Lawrence would begin, and I would call John’s parents. I’d learned from the neighbor that they lived in Georgetown, not far away. I wondered if it would be better to go there in person, so I made a quick call to Royce and asked. He said I should go since the bedroom community was only ten miles south of downtown Savannah. With my colleagues settled in and prepared to call John’s acquaintances, I grabbed a cruiser and left. My phone rang as I drove—it was Danny. I debated on whether to answer since I’d made it clear that he couldn’t call whenever he wanted. I’d just told him that yesterday, so it wasn’t likely he’d forgotten. But since I wasn’t doing anything other than driving, I answered, set the phone to Speaker, and placed it in the cup holder.
“Danny, what’s up?”
“Just seeing if there’s any progress to report.”
“Since yesterday?”
“Yeah, anything can happen in twenty-four hours. At least, I’d hope so.”
“Well, there is a person of interest who may be involved in Kim’s case, but that’s all I can say. We don’t know where he is or what his name is so—”
Danny cut in. “So you have nothing?”
“We have what he looks like but that’s all. Watch the news tonight. Our sergeant is going to contact the local channels and plaster the guy’s face everywhere. Hopefully, somebody knows who he is.”
“Thank God. That might actually get the ball rolling.”
“It might, but right now, I’m working a different case, so I have to go. Like I said, I’ll keep you posted if anything comes up.”
“Thanks, Detective Cannon.”
I hung up and listened to the navigation system on my phone. I was getting close, and giving bad news to any parent, even one whose adult child had previously been in jail, was never easy. Everyone that I knew loved their family members—perfect or not.
I pulled into the driveway on Blue Hill Court and parked. The house, a newer subdivision home, looked well-kept and inviting. I walked up to the door and knocked. I heard heavy footsteps coming my way—the husband, I assumed. The door opened, and a late-sixties-looking man stood there and stared at me.
“May I help you?”
“Mr. Keller?”
“Yes, that’s me, and you are?”
I exposed my badge from the lanyard around my neck. “Savannah Homicide Detective Mitch Cannon, sir. May I come in?”
“Homicide detective?” He waved me through. “You’re here why?”
“Is Mrs. Keller home?”
“No, she’s shopping. What’s this about?” He pointed at the first chair inside the living room, and I took a seat.
“Sir, there’s no easy way to say this, but your son, John, is dead. You have my deepest condolences.”
“That’s impossible. I just spoke with him last night. He was going to stop by Saturday night for supper. We’re on the mend as a family.” His voice caught in his throat, and he glanced up at me with teary eyes. “I’m sure that as a detective, you’re aware of his criminal history.”
I nodded.
“How did he die?”
“It appears that he was attacked in his garage and beaten to death.”
“Oh my God. My poor son. Who? Why?”
I shook my head. “We just discovered him a few hours ago. We don’t have any suspects, and none of the neighbors saw anything unusual. It’s early in the investigation, Mr. Keller.”
We heard the garage door go up, and a look of panic spread across Mr. Keller’s face.
“My wife is home.”
A voice called out from around the corner. “Stan, whose car is that in the driveway?”
She appeared from what I assumed was the kitchen and stared at me.
Stan stood. “Jean, this is Detective Cannon from the police department.”
“Hello,” she said with suspicion in her voice. “Why are you here?”
“Ma’am, please have a seat.”
She looked at Stan and sat on the couch. “Why is a detective here?”
“Honey, John is dead.”
She buried her face in her hands. “No, not now, not when we’re making progress. Everything was going good. He was attending anger management classes. He was treating women better. How could this happen?”
“He was murdered, honey. Beaten to death, right in the garage.”
“A robbery?”
“We don’t have that information yet, ma’am, but it doesn’t appear so.”
“Then why?” She wiped her eyes and pleaded with me for answers I didn’t have.
“That’s part of the reason I’m here, Mrs. Keller. We have to follow up on every lead we get, and I have to know, did anyone have a beef with John?”
She shook her head as if trying to erase what she’d just learned. “I don’t know. We hadn’t been close for some time until recently. John hadn’t disclosed any of his personal life to us, but we were on the right track.”
“Mr. Keller? Anyone that might raise a red flag?”
He rubbed his brow, an indication he was thinking. “Sorry, I’m blanking out on names.”
“How about old friends, then? Someone else he may have confided in?”
Mrs. Keller spoke up. “Yes, there’s Andy. The boys grew up together, and I think they still spoke now and then.”
“Andy who?”
Jean blew her nose then said, “His name is Andrew Jones.”
“One last thing. Did John have any identifiable markings like scars or tattoos?”
“Yes,” Mr. Keller said. “He has a tattoo of a pit bull on his right shoulder.”
“Okay, thank you.”
I gave them my card and said I would call tomorrow with a time they could come to our coroner’s office and identify their son. The only way they could ID him would be through that tattoo since his face was unidentifiable. I offered my condolences again and showed myself out.