Twenty-Eight

 

It was one of those mornings designed to test an investigator’s patience. A day of waiting for results from the search of the vehicle, for the processing of the fingerprint through the national database and living with the diminishing hope of finding the victim alive and the growing anticipation of recovering a body.

Teams of law enforcement, boy scouts and other volunteers spread out over the countryside in pursuit of the victim Michael Agnew. The dog search team with their handlers concentrated on finding the perpetrator starting at the spot of bare dirt where the vehicle was found and following scent from there. It led to the narrow path the investigators had spotted the day before, they plunged through the weeds following the canines’ lead.

Jake and Lucinda chose to stay in town, close to the labs, while they reviewed the data and called around to other jurisdictions looking for information on the connected homicides. They focused on what they had in hand in a vain attempt to forget that they were waiting for others to provide a new puzzle piece they could use.

It was nearly lunchtime when a tech called up. “We ran the door latch print through AFIS but didn’t get a match.”

Jake and Lucinda slumped and stared into space. The intense disappointment over this news seemed to fill the air with a negativity they could taste with every inhalation.

“Maybe they’ve had better luck down in the auto lab,” Lucinda suggested.

Jake called down to where techs were still processing the victim’s SUV. “But it doesn’t look good,” they were told. “We’ve fumed the whole thing with superglue. This vehicle’s been wiped down cleaner than any I’ve ever seen. And we haven’t found any indications that it ever transported a body.”

Next they called the communications liaison in the field. The news he delivered was even worse. “The victim search team has had no luck so far. The canines are still running, though. They’ve got the scent of something. But clouds are forming and getting thick. We’re not sure they’ll get where they want to go before the rain starts. If the weather forecasts are right about the intensity of the expected downpour, there won’t be a scent trail left for them to follow any longer.”

“How about lunch?” Jake suggested.

“Let’s go out there right now,” Lucinda urged.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“We can grab something along the way.”

“But it looks like rain.”

“Exactly. That’s why we need to get out there. See exactly where the dogs are, see how far they’ve gotten, know first hand where they left off,” Lucinda said.

“Instead of reading about it in a report.”

“You got it.”

“Let’s go,” Jake said, grabbing his keys off of his desk.

“You won’t need those. I’m driving,” Lucinda said.

“I can drive.”

“I know but you’re not. I am.”

“Just ’cause I drove out there yesterday doesn’t mean you need to drive out today.”

“I know. I’m driving,” Lucinda insisted.

“Why?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Is there something wrong with my driving?”

“Yeah, but it’s genetic, don’t worry about it.”

“Genetic? What are you talking about?” he said, stopping and facing her with his arms on his hips.

“Keep moving, Jake. You really don’t want to get into this.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m right and you won’t be able to acknowledge it and it’ll screw up our working relationship. Stop lagging behind, Jake. Let’s go.”

“Okay. I’m coming but I still don’t get it.”

“You don’t need to,” Lucinda said.

They got into Lucinda’s car and pulled out of the parking garage. Once they hit the highway, Jake said, “No offense but your car is boring compared to mine.”

“You’re right, Jake. You’ll get no argument from me on that point. This is nothing but a box on wheels.”

“So why are we in this boring piece of crap that feels every little bump in the road instead of riding in comfort in my cool Chevy?”

“Jake, would you let me drive your car?”

“No. Absolutely not. I mean, no offense, Lucinda, but nobody drives my car but me.”

“Exactly. That is why we are in my car.”

“You like to drive that much?”

“Not really. It’s just that I don’t want to ride in any car with you driving.”

“What’s wrong with my driving?”

“You drive like a man.”

“I am a man.”

“Exactly. And although there are a lot of things about men I simply love, the way you all drive is not one of them.”

“Then why are all the jokes about women drivers?”

“Two reasons, Jake. For one, men made up the jokes as a cover-up for their inadequacies. Secondly, there is nothing funny about how men drive – it’s a scary, impulsive, roller-coaster kind of experience.”

“You don’t like roller-coasters, either?”

“Although it’s been years since I’ve been on one, I do like them. I just don’t like it when that experience is artificially duplicated on the road.”

“Why haven’t you been on one for years?”

“Haven’t known anyone else who wanted to go, I guess.”

“Well, you do now. First chance we get, you and I are going to King’s Dominion.”

A thrilling tingle surged through Lucinda from head to toe. Is this a date? Is he asking me out? Or is it just partner recreation? How can I know? Ask him? No way. If I do and he says it’s not a date, I’ll be too embarrassed to go. Shoot, I’ll be too embarrassed to look at him for the rest of the day.

“Well, Lucinda, is it a date?”

Oh, my, he used the word. But the word has two meanings. Just go with the flow and see where it takes you. Just say something. “Sure, Jake, that sounds like fun.”

“What’s this?” Jake asked.

Lucinda turned in his direction and saw he was looking in the back seat. “What’s what?”

“Those notes.” He unfastened his seat belt and reached into the back seat, grabbing the pile of paper that Lucinda had pulled from her windshield. “It’s all in block printing.”

“I don’t know who wrote them. I found them on my windshield.”

“But they are all in block printing, Lucinda.”

“Yeah, so?”

“All the notes from the perpetrator are in block printing.”

“I don’t think they’re connected.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t. It doesn’t fit.”

“When did you start getting them?”

“I’m not sure. Let me think. I guess I found the first one the same day I went to the crime scene at the school district building.”

“And you don’t think they’re connected?”

“No. What do they have to do with anything we found at the crime scene? Or that anyone else has found at a crime scene?”

“The block printing,” Jake insisted, nearly shouting in his exasperation.

“Calm down, Jake. Jeez. Of course, I thought about a connection but how would a perpetrator know I’d be investigating the crime? And why me and not the others?”

“Did you ask any of the others if they found notes like this?”

“Not specifically. But I did ask about notes and a few of them told me about finding the same note at the scene as I did but none mentioned anything being left on the windshield.”

“So, maybe the perp is operating out of your area.”

“That’s a leap, Jake.”

“Not really. Think about it. Where have we pinpointed linked homicides?”

“From Florida to Maine.”

“And you’re in Virginia. Right in the middle of the geographic spread.”

“Well, yeah . . .”

“And, we’ve got that Steve Broderick guy missing in action and we know he was in the vicinity of two of the crime scenes. I’m going to get our geographic profilers on this when we get back to the office.”

“I don’t know, Jake. It just doesn’t feel right.”

“Gut feeling? Intuition?” I believe that both are valuable, Lucinda. But I also don’t believe in coincidence.”

“I’m not real fond of it, either,” Lucinda admitted. “I guess it is worth looking into it.”

“Got that right. In fact, these notes are going to be preserved as evidence. Anybody touched them besides you?”

Lucinda smirked and tried not to laugh out loud. “Uh, you, Jake.”

Jake reddened and said, “Yeah, well, yeah. Okay, we’ll have to eliminate both of our prints and see if there’s anything else there. You should’ve bagged them.”

“Jake, if I bagged every silly, semi-threatening note I received in my career, the department would have to rent more storage space.”

“But still, Lucinda . . .”

“You win, Jake. Collect it as evidence. Keep it. Cherish it. But I still don’t think it’ll get you anywhere.”

“We’ll see. Probably ought to have security for you when you go back to Greensboro.”

“Don’t push it, Jake.”

Lucinda turned off the highway and on to the two-lane state road that led to the location where Michael Agnew’s car was found. They’d only traveled a few yards when Jake’s cell phone rang.

Lucinda listened to just one side of the conversation. It made no sense but it was clear that Jake was agitated by what he was hearing.

He hung up and said, “When you get to the dirt lane we took yesterday, just keep driving.”

“What’s up, Jake?”

“They think they found Michael Agnew.”

“He’s not still alive, is he?”

“No. And I hope to God that they are exaggerating about what they found out here.”

The rain began with big, fat drops that fell slow and smooth as if they were dripping from an eave in the sky. The pace picked up until it was torrential and visibility was poor. Lucinda slowed the car to a crawl as they watched for the mail box marked with a yellow streamer of crime tape.

They turned in and crested a rise. The first thing they spotted were the florescent orange vests of the canine handlers, glowing in the dreary light from the front porch of another abandoned farm house where they went with their dogs for shelter from the storm. Although the house itself was in better shape than the one they saw yesterday, the gloom of the day made it appear sadder and more bereft.

They were led over to a small barn a hundred yards from the house. Deputies pulled open the large double doors as they approached. The sight took their breath away and then settled in their guts, roiled their stomachs and formed a hard lump inside their chests.

Michael Agnew looked like a marionette. He hung from a beam with a rope around his neck. Two other ropes extended down from above to tie around his wrists. His arms bent at the elbow stuck straight out. Every finger was broken and posed at an unnatural angle. Below his feet, in the dirt, lay a piece of yellow, lined paper held in place with a rock. Written across it in bold, block letters: I WAS LEFT BEHIND.

To the left of the body, on a bale of straw, Agnew’s suit jacket was neatly draped, his tie stretched across it. A yellow folded clump of paper protruded from a pocket.

Was it a repeat of the message on the ground? Or was it something more? Lucinda wondered. “I want to look at that paper,” Lucinda said, pointing toward the jacket.

“Me too. The forensic team will be here as soon as they can. They were called right after we were. Once they photograph it in place, we’ll snatch it up.”

Jake slumped over. He sighed as his shoulders heaved up then down.

“Jake?” Lucinda asked.

He shook his head.

She reached a hand toward him, hesitated, pulled back, then reached out her arm again, resting her palm on his shoulder. “Jake, you didn’t really think you’d find him alive, did you?”

“No, not really,” he said, raising his head. “But I had hoped. I had hoped with all my heart.”

Their faces were inches away. Lucinda stifled a gasp as a rush of sympathy combined with desire flushed through her face. He looked at her with longing. Then they both backed away and hung their heads.

“We always hope, Jake. That’s all that keeps us going,” Lucinda said. She wondered if he caught the double meaning behind her words.