Fourteen

Mitch knocked on the medical examiner’s door and waited to be admitted. This was, he knew, a courtesy on his part. He could have walked in and announced himself, but he didn’t like to start off a new case by pushing his federal credentials down anyone’s throat.

To his mind, Sheriff Herbert Dempsey was just asking for a little federal push and shove. Mitch had a feeling that before the weekend was over, Dempsey would get at least one, and from someone much higher up than Mitch.

The ME’s assistant came to the door, and admitted Mitch as soon as he held up his ID.

“We’re still working on her,” the assistant told him. “Come on in.”

“Who is it, Mary?” the ME asked without looking up from her work.

“Special Agent Mitchell Peyton,” Mitch told her.

She glanced up and looked behind Mitch.

“The sheriff didn’t come with you?” she asked.

“Was he supposed to?”

She grinned. “He never has in the past, but I was wondering if maybe he wouldn’t want it to look like the FBI was showing him up.”

She held up her gloved hands.

“Sorry, can’t shake. I’m Virginia Moffitt.”

“Nice to meet you, Doctor Moffitt.” He walked closer, close enough to see that the late Pamela Hobbs had had her throat slashed from ear to ear.

“The mouth that’s painted on.” He pointed to the victim’s face, where a clownlike mouth grinned at them ghoulishly.

“Blood. Hers, I’m thinking. The lab reports should be back in before the end of the day, but I’d bet the Porsche it’s hers.” Dr. Moffitt’s focus was back on her work.

“You have a Porsche you’re willing to bet?” he asked.

“Vintage 911, 1989.” She smiled without looking up. “And since my daddy always told me not to bet anything I can’t afford to lose, I only bet on sure things.”

“So what can you tell me about our young lady?” Mitch asked.

“She’s in her early twenties, well developed, well nourished, but doesn’t appear to have worked out much the way so many young girls do today. She’s soft, poor muscle tone. Could have used some dental work, but it’s too late to worry about that. Stomach contents, mostly alcohol. BAL was two point one, so she’d been partying with someone until shortly before her death.”

“Drugs?”

“Drug screen has been run but like I said, the results on the blood work won’t be in until later today.”

“Official cause of death?”

“Exsanguination from a slash wound to the throat,” she said without expression.

“Any other wounds?”

“None. That one was enough to do the job.”

“Any sign of sexual assault?”

“There’s evidence she had intercourse before she died, but no signs of a struggle.” The doctor looked at Mitch over the girl’s body. “I’d say she knew her killer well enough to have sex with him.”

“But not well enough to know he was a killer.”

“Right. There’s no sign that she struggled, though there is some sign that she may have been suffocated.”

“Strangled?”

“No, there’s no visible sign that she’d been strangled, no bruising to her neck, the hyoid bone is intact. But there are signs of petechial rash around the eyes, so she’d had her oxygen cut off at some point. Asphyxiation was not the cause of death, but she may have been rendered unconscious.”

“Put her out before you slash her throat?” Mitch rubbed his chin. “Usually, the slasher wants his vic to watch, wants her to know what’s coming.”

“Hey, I don’t pretend to understand what these guys think. I’m only telling you what I see.”

“When you’re finished, I want to show you some photos of another crime scene.”

The doctor looked up. “Show me now.” She pointed to the torso. “I haven’t gone inside yet, so I’m going to be a while.”

Mitch opened his briefcase and took out a file.

“You’re going to have to hold them up,” she said, “because I don’t want to pull these gloves off.”

“Fair enough.” He slid the photos out of the file and held up the first one. She stared at it for a long moment, then nodded, so he went on to the next. When they’d gone through the entire pack without her comment, he said, “So?”

“So it’s the same guy.”

“You willing to bet the Porsche?”

She looked up at him.

“Yeah. Look at the slash across the neck. It’s jagged, like he was sawing. He didn’t use a very good tool.” She frowned. “And the cut goes from left to right, so I’m thinking the killer is left-handed. Same as our girl here.”

She pointed to the pile of pictures. “And the posing is the same, hands crossed over her chest, ankles crossed demurely. Pam was holding a couple of flowers in her hands, just like the victim in those photos. I’d say the evidence points to the same guy.”

“Any trace on the body?”

“Semen on her leg, and a couple of male pubic hairs. Two on her leg, three on her stomach. That’s about it.”

“Fingerprints?”

“Now you’re stretching.” She shrugged. “I don’t think the boys out in the field thought about pulling latents. They just picked her up and put her on the stretcher when they were done taking photos.”

“Which means lots of fingerprints on the body.”

“Right.”

“Do you have a lab down here that can run DNA quickly?”

“Depends on how you define quickly.”

“I need them yesterday.”

“How about next month?”

“I could pull some strings at the FBI lab and have it processed inside the week,” he told her, “if you’d get me the samples.”

“Just tell me where to send them.”

“Adrianne Jensen at Quantico.”

“I’ll send them out first thing in the morning.”

“I’ll let her know to expect them.”

“Anything else I can do for you, Agent…?”

“Peyton. And I think you’ve answered all my questions for now.”

“Don’t hesitate to call if you think of something.”

She lifted a saw in her right hand.

“Will do. Thanks.” He grabbed his briefcase and started toward the door, then turned back and asked, “Could I get a copy of the photos you took of the wound?”

“The photos all go to Sheriff Dempsey. You’ll have to pry the extras from him.”

 

“I just want to go on record as having said that I do not like this.” Sheriff Herb Dempsey frowned, drawing his eyebrows dangerously close to each other so that they all but touched in the space between. “If I had my way, this bastard’s picture would be plastered all up and down the East Coast. But you want to do this your way, Agent Peyton, the blood of this man’s future victims is on your hands, you hear? You want to go over my head, that’s fine. You want to have some big-shot FBI honcho pulling everyone’s strings, that’s fine, too. But I’m telling you right here and now, this son of a bitch is going to kill again, and the blood of those women will be on you.”

“Sheriff, I appreciate your position. And I agree one hundred percent, this man will continue to kill until he’s brought in,” Mitch said levelly, trying to placate the local law machine. “I’m simply asking for forty-eight hours before any photos of Lester Ray Barnes are released to the press. Give us time to draw him out, make him come to us. If we can’t get him to do that by Tuesday morning, you send that photo out to whomever and wherever you please.”

“What makes you so sure you’ll be able to get him to come to you?”

“We have something he wants.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“His ticket to fame and fortune.”

“Do better than that for me, son.”

“Lester Ray thinks he’s going to work with Regan Landry on a book about his case. She’s already met with him. He wants that, wants her to write that book.”

“How do you know?”

“I was there when she met with him. Trust me, he’s got big plans for himself, him and his attorney both.”

“You think he’ll go after her?”

“No. I think the book is too important to him.”

“Good. Hate to see that happen. I was a big fan of her father’s. Shame what happened to him.” Dempsey leaned back in his chair. “So she’ll get him to come to her, and you’ll be waiting for him.”

“Right.”

“I hope you are because I’d hate to have another girl end up like this.” He pointed to the stack of photos on the edge of his desk.

“So would I,” Mitch agreed. “But there’s no way he’d blow Regan off. He thinks this book is his golden ticket. He’ll meet with Regan, there’s no question in my mind.”

“Well, then, you’ve got your forty-eight hours, not that I have much say in the matter.” Dempsey looked him straight on. “Make ’em count.”

Mitch’s next stop was Casey’s.

The parking lot was filled to capacity, so he was forced to park across the road in the grassy field next to a small motel. He crossed to the bar and went inside. The room was crowded, smoky, and buzzing with excited voices. Every scrap of conversation he overheard between the front door and the bar focused on the events of Thursday evening. Those who had been there that night were talking about how Pam had come on to the stranger, or how he had played up to her. Mitch shook his head as he made his way to the bartender. There’d be a different version of the story for everyone who told it, and by now the sheriff’s deputies had taken a statement from each of them. The rest of it was mostly gossip, repeating one version or another.

He walked to the end of the bar and waited for the bartender’s attention. When he approached, Mitch waved him closer, then slid his ID onto the bar, making sure the bartender noticed.

“You’re here about Pammie.” The bartender nodded, and it seemed to Mitch that he was already getting tired of repeating the story.

“Yes.”

“Look, I already spoke with the sheriff, with two of his deputies, the State Bureau of Investigation…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I honest to God don’t remember another damned thing.”

“What’s your name?” Mitch asked.

“Drake. Drake Sullivan.”

Mitch withdrew the picture of Lester Ray from his pocket.

“Drake, does this look like the man who was in here the other night?”

Drake stared long and hard.

“I can’t tell for sure, man. The guy who was here, he had different hair, he was dressed real nice, his expression was different. He was definitely having a good time. This picture…that prison shirt, the look on his face…it’s real different from the guy I remember.” He shook his head. “It could be the same guy, but I couldn’t swear it was him.”

“How long was he in here?”

“Couple of hours.”

“And in all that time, you didn’t look at him closely enough to be able to say if this is him or not?”

“Man, the bar was crowded, we were watching the game. I served him a couple of beers, he ordered some dinner, then the game went on. Not long after, the girls came in. And like I said, this guy looked like he didn’t have a care in the world, he was dressed decent. Looked more like a regular joe than an ex-con.”

“Thanks for your time.” Mitch handed him one of his cards. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”

“Will do.”

“Oh, by the way, how’d he pay? Did he use a credit card?” Mitch asked.

“Cash.” Drake looked disappointed. “Sorry, man. Wish I could help. Pammie was a real nice kid. Messed up a little, not very bright, not very selective, either, when it came to guys. But she was a nice kid. I hope you catch this guy, I really do. She didn’t deserve what happened to her.”

“No one does.”

Mitch left the bar and stood on the side of the road, waiting for traffic to clear so he could cross. He was halfway across the lot when he stopped, and turned back to the motel.

Surely the sheriff had checked the motel…

Mitch walked to the door marked OFFICE and pushed it open. A bell rang as he crossed the threshold. The lobby, if the small room could be so called, was square and dark, with two worn faux-leather love seats and a registration desk with a chipped Formica top.

A short balding man came from a room in the back to greet Mitch.

“Looking for a room, I guess,” the man said.

“No, actually, looking for some information.” Mitch held up his ID.

“Sure. What do you need?”

“I need to see your registration log for this past week.”

“What are you looking for?” The desk clerk pointed to the large computer monitor that sat at the end of the desk. “Give me the name, I’ll check.”

“Lester Ray Barnes. Any time from, say, Wednesday through Saturday.” Mitch paused. “Check for Darren Barnes, as well.”

The clerk sat on a stool and clicked away at the keyboard.

“No, sorry. I don’t see any of those names.”

Mitch pulled out the picture of Lester Ray.

“Maybe if I showed you a photo…”

“Wouldn’t help.” The man shrugged. “I’m only here on the weekends.”

“May I see the names of the people who registered here over the last few days?”

“We’re not supposed to do that…,” the clerk said, “I could maybe get in trouble with the owner.”

“Or, you could maybe get in trouble with the FBI.” Mitch smiled. “Up to you, which could be more trouble, in the long run.”

The clerk waved Mitch behind the desk and stepped out of his way. Mitch began to scroll down through the screens, then stopped on one.

“Oh, of course.” He all but smacked himself in the forehead. “I’ll need a copy of this.”

The clerk leaned forward and hit the print icon. When the page printed out, he handed it to Mitch.

“This is the car he was driving, and the license plate number?” Mitch asked.

“That’s what he told us. We wouldn’t have gone out to check. We pretty much take people at their word.”

“Thanks a million. You’ve been a huge help.”

“This have anything to do with that girl that got picked up over there at Casey’s and ended up dead?” the clerk asked as Mitch folded the paper and put it in his pocket.

“Yes, it does. And when we bring him in, you’ll be able to tell everyone that the information you provided to the FBI helped solve the case.”

Mitch pushed open the door and walked briskly to his car, his heart beating a little faster, knowing they were that much closer. He was speed dialing his office as he got into his car.

“John, it’s Mitch. Sorry to call so late on a Sunday night,” he said when John Mancini, the leader of their unit, answered. “I have an ID on the car Barnes was driving the night of the murder…”

He explained the circumstances to his boss.

“He registered at the motel as Roland Booth?” John asked.

“Yes, with one of Booth’s credit cards.”

“Stolen?”

“I think it’s more likely that Booth loaned it to him. Remember, they both think they’re going to make a fortune off this book. Not likely, from what Regan tells me, but that’s what they believe. I think that Booth may have rented the car Lester Ray is using, and handed over both the keys and the credit card.”

“Generous of him.”

“I’m sure he’s figuring on getting the money back when he cashes in on Lester Ray’s newfound fame,” Mitch said dryly.

“We need the license plate of the car,” John said.

“Got it from the motel, but it could be phony,” Mitch told John.

“We’ll run a trace on it,” John said. “Think Barnes was smart enough to dummy up the tags?”

Mitch thought it over for a moment, then said, “Not really. I think there’s a damned good chance he just gave them what they asked for.”

“Then let’s go with it,” John said.

“Get a pen, and I’ll give you the info on the car and the credit card.”

“Go.”

When Mitch finished, John said, “I’ll have the credit card number run and we’ll see where it’s been used. With luck, he’s used the same card there in Corolla. The card should lead us directly to him.”

“I’ve never been that lucky, to tell you the truth,” Mitch said.

“Hey, it’s happened before, no reason why it can’t happen again. I’m thinking Barnes isn’t smart enough to cover his tracks.”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“I have three agents already in Corolla. I’ll get this information to them right now. If your investigation there is finished, I want you to meet up with the others as soon as possible.”

“Who and where?”

“Mia Shields, Adam Stark, and Tom Parrish.”

“Think someone could keep an eye on Regan until I get there? I’m uneasy knowing that Barnes is already on the island and there’s no one watching her back.”

“Mia checked in to Windham House a couple of hours ago. Regan’s back is already being watched.”

“Great. Thank you.”

“Give Mia a call, let her know you’re on your way.”

“Will do.”

“Nice job, Peyton.”

“Thanks, John. I’ll be in touch.”

Mitch disconnected the call and started the engine. He’d stop at the sheriff’s department and make a copy of the motel registration for the sheriff, fax another in to the State Bureau of Investigation.

On the way he’d call Regan and tell her he’d be there in time for breakfast. He hesitated for a moment, knowing that at this hour, she’d most likely be asleep. Then he thought of the way her voice sounded when she’d just awakened, soft and drowsy and just a little slow.

He should give her Mia’s number. Regan needed to know there was someone there for her, just in case, between now and the time Mitch arrived. He’d hated the thought of her being there alone, with no one he trusted on the scene. God knows, he didn’t trust Lester Ray Barnes.

Then again, if John was right, chances are they’d have Lester Ray under wraps by morning.

He speed dialed Regan’s cell phone. There just might be time for that Jacuzzi after all.