“Murder?” Sam glanced over the tops of the post office boxes to the cork board in the squad room. The coincidence of a murderer owning the land tied to the skeletal remains was a great lead. But if Menda was the killer and had owned the meth lab, that meant Thorne wasn’t the killer. Unless, of course, the two of them had worked together.
Holden nodded, his eyes following Sam’s. “Girls. More than one.”
Reese whistled. “Sounds like he could be our guy.”
“Can’t be.” Holden’s jaw was tight.
“Why not?” Reese frowned at her computer. “Says here his trial was three years ago. Our girls have been there longer than that. Maybe he just didn’t get caught for these murders yet.”
“I wish this case was that easy, but I don’t think he could have done it.” Holden squinted as if trying to force data to the front of his brain. “It’s his M.O. to bury them in shallow graves, but, as I recall, he’d been in jail in Texas for almost killing his girlfriend before that, and I believe that’s in the timeframe John said our girls were killed.”
“That explains why Mervale got that property so cheap.”
Holden nodded. “Fire sale to pay for his defense.”
“I’m surprised Mervale bought the land. Beryl Thorne seemed concerned about the family name. Seems like buying land from a murderer would taint it.”
“But Beryl wasn’t in charge of Mervale then. Her brother was. Maybe he cares more about cheap land,” Jo said.
“They might not have known it was tied to Menda,” Holden said. “A realty trust hides the beneficiary’s name. Lawyers could have done the deal and the officers of the company would have been none the wiser. Menda comes from money, but even money can’t help when you’re a sadistic killer.”
“That also explains why Mervale didn’t know a cabin existed. Menda probably didn’t mention it so no one would discover what else he’d been up to out there.”
“If he knew it was being used for meth,” Holden pressed his lips together. “We didn’t have any indication he was involved in drugs.”
Sam looked at him. “No?” There might be hope to nail Thorne yet. “Maybe Menda didn’t. Maybe Thorne knew about the cabin and knew no one came to the land. Figured it would be a convenient place to set up shop.”
Jo snapped her fingers. “And maybe when he found out his wife’s company bought it he cleared out because that was just too close of a link to him.”
“Looks like we need to talk to Menda,” Sam said.
Holden nodded. “He’s in the New Hampshire State Prison in Concord. Best if you guys go without me… He and I don’t have the best relationship. Be careful. He’s smart, sneaky, and doesn’t have an ounce of remorse.”
Concord was only a three-hour drive, so Jo and Sam left right away in the Tahoe. Sam had suggested that he go with Wyatt instead of Jo, but one dagger-like glare from his sergeant told him to back off. Still, he felt protective of her as they sat on hard orange plastic chairs in the interview room, the scent of bleach and despair stinging his nostrils.
Joseph Menda shuffled in, the pant legs of his orange jumpsuit a little too long. His hands were cuffed in front of him, and his eyes sized them up, lingering on Jo a little too long.
Menda wasn’t anything like Sam had expected. He was thin, wiry, with a bushy head of hair. It was his eyes that gave away what was inside. Cold and dead with not an ounce of remorse, just as Holden had said.
He plopped into the chair, a smile spreading across his face. He’d almost be handsome if it wasn’t for those flat, dead eyes.
“So what can I do for ya?” His demeanor reminded Sam of a kid being let out on a field trip. He was enjoying this.
“We have a question about your old property.”
“Old property?”
“Up in Colebrook. A little cabin where you might have had a side business going.”
Menda’s forehead wrinkled. “Don’t know what you mean.”
“Drugs, meth. I know you weren’t arrested for that, but we found evidence on your land.”
Menda raised his brows in faux innocence. “This supposed land in Colebrook? Never been there. My grandparents left me a bunch of land. It’s all gone now. I’m not copping to any drug charges.”
“Really? How about a few young girls that ended up in shallow graves near there?”
Menda laughed. “Trying to pin more murders on me? That happens all the time.” Chains clanked as he gestured to the door. “As you can see I’m in no position to be killing young girls. Though I do wish I was.”
Sam’s stomach churned, but he continued. “This was five years ago. You’ve only been here for three.”
“Sorry. Not me. They got me on all the ones I killed.” He leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with interest. “But tell me, what exactly did you find?”
Sam fought the urge to leave. The man was repulsive, but he wanted answers. “Three girls. Runaways probably. Found in shallow graves. I hear that’s your M.O.”
“I’m hardly the first guy to stuff someone in a shallow grave. Deep graves are hard to dig or I’d have buried mine deeper.”
“So you’re denying any involvement with these girls?”
“I don’t know, maybe if I could see a photo…” Menda leaned even closer, his breath quickening.
Sam had brought photos, but wasn’t sure he should show them. The guy was practically salivating to see them. Then again, if it would get him some answers…
He took them out of his shirt pocket and slid them across the table. The shallow grave, ivory-colored bones, the hole-punctured tarp. Menda’s eyes lit up.
“Look familiar?”
Menda sat back and sighed “Not really. That’s not my work. Fascinating, though. Wish they had a bit more flesh on them.”
“What about the holes in the tarp?”
Menda frowned and leaned forward again. “Those look like they were done on purpose. Why?”
“We were hoping you could tell us,” Jo said.
Menda pivoted his attention to Jo. “Sorry, can’t help you there. Maybe someone was trying to improve on my process.”
“Improve?”
“Yeah, you know, copycat, but with an additional twist.”
“You think this killer was a copycat?”
“Believe it or not, I have people who study me. Maybe someone was learning from me like I learned by studying the greats.”
Serial killers copied one another? Sam glanced at Jo. She didn’t look surprised.
“So you think whoever did this studied you?”
Menda leaned back in his chair, smug. “Sure. How does any good artist learn their craft? They study from a master.”
“And you’re a master,” Jo said.
He tried to spread his hands, but the cuffs stopped him. He put them back in his lap. “Certainly. I get fan mail and emails all the time complimenting me, boasting and asking for tips. Of course, the prison censors them, but you can read between the lines.” A smile of self-importance crossed his lips.
“Any idea who in particular might have killed these girls?” Sam tapped the photo.
Menda twisted his lips and squinted. “Five years ago, you say? No idea. I don’t know who my followers are anyway, so wouldn’t be any help.”
Sam collected the photos and put them in his pocket.
Menda looked disappointed. His eyes met Sam’s. “So if this was five years ago and you haven’t caught the guy, why aren’t there any fresh kills?”
“That’s what I was wondering. Either the person moved on or maybe he’s in prison.”
“Or taking a break,” Jo cut in. “Sometimes killers go dormant.”
Menda licked his lips and nodded slowly. “That’s true, they do. I took a break once. Ten years.” He leaned forward, his dull eyes flashing a glint of excitement. “But that urge to kill never goes away completely, so if your guy hasn’t killed anyone in five years, my guess is he’s itching to start up again.”