FROM THE BEGINNING, PHIL HAD warned D.D. that she’d regret making Flora Dane a CI. The woman was a known vigilante, an avowed loner, and just plain reckless. D.D. always hated it when her mentor was right.
“So to recap,” she said briskly now, sitting at the head of the table, “you”—she skewered Flora with a glance—“took it upon yourself to call an Atlanta FBI agent and invite her into my investigation.”
“Technically, I invited her to assist in my investigation,” Flora said.
Yep, D.D.’s confidential informant had definitely gone rogue.
Flora continued. “I have an interest in all this, too, you know. What was Conrad Carter’s association with Jacob? Were there other men or predators he was meeting? Does this mean he was part of some larger network of sociopaths and I missed it? Then, talking to SSA Quincy and hearing about other missing women—”
D.D. held up a hand. She pointed at the other newcomer in the room, who appeared to be around thirty years of age, could’ve passed for a Tom Ford model, and was sitting a lot closer to Flora than strictly necessary.
“And you? What’s your role in all this?”
Kimberly Quincy was already smiling, which meant this was going to be good.
To the man’s credit, he planted both elbows on the table, leaned forward, and met D.D.’s stare. “My name is Keith Edgar. I’m a computer analyst, and, um . . . I run a forum for true-crime enthusiasts. In particular, we’ve been working the Jacob Ness case for the past six years.”
“You’ve been working the Jacob Ness case?”
Kimberly Quincy’s smile was growing.
“We’ve always suspected there were other victims. The degree of sophistication and planning that went into Flora’s abduction . . . no predator gets that smart overnight.”
If Flora was offended to be discussed as little more than a case study, she didn’t show it.
“And you know this because you’re a computer analyst?” D.D. pressed.
“No, I know this because I’ve done a great deal of reading on the subject—”
“Internet true-crime porn.”
“And I work with a group of talented experts, which included retired BPD detective Wayne Rock.”
That caught D.D.’s attention. She’d known Wayne before his retirement five years ago. Great man, brilliant detective, who had lost his battle with cancer just a few months ago. The whole department had grieved, herself included.
“Wayne also believed there were other victims?”
“Absolutely. Most predators follow a pattern of escalation. With a self-proclaimed sex addict such as Ness, he probably started young as a voyeur, then evolved to inappropriate touching, before engaging in full-fledged sexual assault, and finally, ultimately . . .”
Edgar gestured awkwardly toward Flora, who still remained completely expressionless. Briefly, D.D. felt her heart soften. This was Flora’s life. To be forever defined by a monster, whether she wanted to be or not. For the two years D.D. had known Flora, the woman had always refused to discuss her past. So to be part of this conversation now, to have invited a feebie no less, was an act in courage, whether D.D. liked it or not.
“Which brings us to you.” She switched her attention to SSA Quincy. “The agent who actually figured out Ness was a long-haul trucker and organized the SWAT raid. You must’ve recovered a helluva lot of evidence.”
“Yes and no, that’s the problem. Ness’s rig offered up some hair, other DNA samples. But his computer—which, according to Flora, he logged on to daily—”
Flora nodded.
“—was suspiciously lacking in content. Not even porn.”
“He always watched porn.” Flora spoke up.
“Completely wiping a hard drive is nearly impossible,” the computer analyst spoke up. “He must have used a tool or app. Let’s see, we’re talking 2010.” Edgar paused, seemed to be considering. “I’m guessing SteadyState, which was a free Microsoft app that worked with all XP operating systems. Microsoft offered it as a home computer safety system. It basically reverted the computer to a prior clean slate every time the laptop was rebooted, effectively deleting any malware or viruses kids might have inadvertently downloaded while playing online. The app worked so well, many computer professionals used it as well, myself included.”
Edgar regarded Quincy with open curiosity.
“Ness’s laptop did indeed contain SteadyState,” she volunteered tersely.
“Interesting. Because it takes some time and capability to set up the app. To pick which items on the hard drive should be cleared and which should be left alone each time the system is rebooted. That alone proves an interesting level of computer sophistication for a man who didn’t even graduate high school. And you’re saying you didn’t recover a single book in Ness’s truck on computer programming, Windows operating systems, anything?”
“Nada.”
Edgar and Flora Dane exchanged a look. D.D. wasn’t sure she liked it.
“Ness’s cell phone?” D.D. interrupted now.
“No smartphone,” Quincy supplied. “We recovered a cheap, prepaid flip with hardly any usage. Certainly no texts or anything useful.”
“I don’t remember him ever using a cell,” Flora said. “I would’ve guessed he had no one to call.”
“Meaning the lack of evidence is the evidence,” D.D. filled in. “Someone must’ve taught Ness how to cover his tracks, both with this computer app, and the prepaid flip.” She glanced at Flora. “But the only time you remember him meeting up with another person was the one time you saw Conrad at the bar?”
“That’s the only person I saw. But Jacob would disappear for days, sometimes even a week at a time. I always assumed he went on drug binges. But he could’ve been meeting up with other buddies. Maybe he was going on mini crime sprees, I don’t know.”
“Don’t you think he’d brag to you?” Quincy spoke up. “He spoke to you about a great many things. And wasn’t above threatening you with replacement.”
Flora shrugged. “Jacob bragged. If he’d spent days with another woman, whether victim or prostitute, he might say something. But . . .” Flora took a deep breath. “Jacob was clever. He knew who he was. From a very young age, he told me, he knew he was different from others. And he knew he had to hide it. He was very adept at self-preservation. If he’d found some group, started networking with other predators, even met them from time to time, no, I don’t think he’d tell me. He liked his secrets, too. And it amused him when others underestimated him. Saw just a white-trash trucker, when he knew himself to be more.”
“What about a Tor browser?” Edgar spoke up.
Quincy regarded the computer analyst coolly. “As a matter of fact, in addition to SteadyState, Ness’s laptop also had the Tor browser.”
“What does that mean?” Flora spoke up.
“Tor, a.k.a. ‘the Onion Router,’ is a browser that uses a peer-to-peer network that intentionally obfuscates source IP addresses,” Edgar explained. He looked at D.D. “It’s perfectly safe and legal. It also happens to be the primary browser used to access the dark web.”
D.D. got it. “Where Jacob could very well have trolled chat rooms filled with other perverts such as himself, picking up all sorts of new tricks and forensic dodges, while rebooting his laptop each night, allowing this SteadyState to automatically clear all record of such site visits and chat-room logs.” She glanced at Quincy. “And knowing all this, the FBI can’t magically do anything to rebuild the computer’s history?”
“The FBI has tried its magic,” Quincy drawled drily, then turned to Keith Edgar. “Don’t even think about it. No matter how brilliant a geek you are, I assure you, my geeks are better. Nor is the FBI in the business of sharing evidence.”
Edgar sank down. D.D. started to remember how much she liked Kimberly Quincy.
“What about his trucking log?” asked D.D. “Don’t long-haul truckers have GPS and computer monitoring and that kind of thing? Seems like that should be a significant source of data.”
“Once again, the answer is yes and no,” Quincy said. “The company Jacob worked for only kept the backup data for three months. So we know his last three months of movement, give or take, but as for the time he had his rig at his safe house to first load up Flora, nada. Likewise, even if we had a specific time period—say, Flora could pinpoint the week or month Jacob met your murder victim at the bar—we can’t look it up. What we did find . . . Jacob drove the highways of the South with some side trips to cheap motels, et cetera. We also discovered gaps in the data, which leads us to believe Jacob may have figured out how to turn off his GPS and computer monitoring—and that’s not easy to do. These systems are required by law and designed to track how many consecutive hours a trucker has traveled and basically demand driving breaks. You can’t just turn them off with a flick of a switch, or all drivers under a tough deadline would do it. Again, a surprising level of electronic sophistication from a man with a ninth-grade education.”
Quincy tilted her head toward Edgar, who’d first made the point.
“So what exactly is the plan here?” D.D. asked. “Go after Jacob Ness’s principal hideaway? See if we can find new evidence there?”
Quincy and Flora nodded.
“And to do that, Flora has volunteered herself as what, a hypnosis subject? Because you know experts still don’t agree on the validity of recovered memories, and juries just plain hate that crap.”
“There are other techniques.” Flora spoke up first. “I’ve done some research. The human brain works a lot like a computer. First, there’s the matter of what data is recorded in the moment. Particularly in traumatic situations, some people’s senses heighten and they see all. But most people actually shut down. They squeeze their eyes shut, cover their ears, try to block what’s happening. They don’t want to know. Meaning the data is incomplete.”
D.D. arched a brow at her CI.
“I was a long-term victim,” Flora supplied in response to the next logical question. “In the beginning, maybe I did try to shut it out. I certainly don’t remember many specific details of the first . . . assault. But over time, the . . . continuity”—Flora picked the word carefully—“made the events less traumatic and more normal. At which point, I had plenty of opportunities to note and record more . . . data. So it’s not like I’m trying to recover one memory, which might be suspect, but a string of impressions I had months to form.”
On the table, Edgar’s hand moved closer to Flora’s. Still not touching, D.D. noticed, but closer. In return, Flora’s hand drifted slightly toward his. Fascinating. D.D. had never known the woman to even look at a member of the opposite sex. Now this: a true-crime buff. She hoped Flora knew what she was doing. And she hoped like hell Keith Edgar saw Flora as a person, and not just the object of a macabre criminal case.
“But there are other issues with memory recovery techniques,” D.D. stated now. “To keep with your analogy, it’s not enough for the data to be present. There’s the small matter of extracting it without corrupting it with other information—the power of suggestion.”
“I wouldn’t do hypnosis,” Flora said immediately. “I’ve been doing some research and that’s my least favorite option.”
D.D. and Quincy both eyed the woman.
“I would prefer a visualization exercise, grounded in known triggers.”
“I’ll bite,” D.D. said. “What?”
“Smell is the strongest known trigger for memory. Therefore, some experts suggest starting a visualization exercise with what the subject knows to be true about the episode: say, the smell of urine-soaked pine wood.” Again, the woman didn’t flinch. “The taste of blood on my tongue. The feel of a sliver in my finger.”
It took D.D. a moment to get it; then she wished she hadn’t. “You’re talking about sticking yourself back in the coffin? Re-creating your own captivity, for the sake of a memory?”
Flora stared at her. Very gaunt now, D.D. saw. Very dark shadows under her eyes. “I think it’s worth trying.”
“And Dr. Keynes—”
“It’s my decision!”
“I’ll take that to be a no.” D.D. turned to Quincy. “Did you know about this?”
“No,” the agent said immediately. “And to be honest, I don’t agree with it. Re-creating trauma, particularly of that nature, risks sending you down the rabbit hole all over again. The psychological impact on you, where this might lead. It’s not a good idea.”
“We need to find where Jacob lived—”
“Not at the expense of your mental health,” D.D. snapped. “He took enough from you. Don’t give him any more.”
“This is my choice. This is me fighting back!”
“This is you sacrificing yourself. First you wouldn’t talk about anything, now you’re risking a complete meltdown. You do realize there are options in between, don’t you?”
“Such as?”
“Forget coffins for a second. For the sake of argument, we can try out your technique but go after a memory that’s much less traumatic. How about the night Jacob met Conrad? You described it as a dive bar. You said you ate and ate. Nachos, chicken wings, beer? Country music on the radio, maybe you know a particular song? If you’re going to use your five senses to attempt to trigger a memory, I think beer, hot wings, and country songs are a much safer place to start. With the assistance of Dr. Keynes, of course. Because this is way out of my league, and yours, too.” D.D. gestured to SSA Quincy.
“You want more information on Conrad Carter,” the federal agent filled in.
“That is the point of my investigation. But for the record, we made an interesting discovery today: Conrad Carter had hidden away half a dozen fake IDs. Not great ones, but good enough to get into a bar.”
“You think he used the IDs as an alias when he traveled,” Quincy stated. “Including when he met up with Jacob Ness.”
“If Flora could remember what name Jacob called him, that would confirm our suspicions. But also, what exactly did they talk about, did any other names come up? You want to find Jacob’s secret clubhouse—fair enough. But maybe the other way of coming after Jacob Ness is to identify the other members of the club. Especially if some of them are still alive . . .”
“They might be able to provide information on Ness, including his cabin hideaway.” Keith Edgar spoke up.
“Based on what SSA Quincy is saying, they were probably the ones who gave Jacob the pointers on how to keep it hidden.” D.D. looked at Flora. “What do you think?”
The woman frowned. “I don’t know. I was drinking heavily that night. Meaning, the quality of the data recorded . . .”
“At a certain point you were drunk. Drunks have notoriously lousy memories.”
“But I don’t remember Jacob calling him Conrad. I think it might have been another name. And that was in the beginning. Maybe there is more I saw, or noticed, than I think. If Jacob had help—and it seems like he must’ve—then, yes, I’d like to go after those men, too.”
“Not just one predator, but a whole network of them.” Keith Edgar sounded slightly breathless.
D.D. frowned at him. “Not so fast, big boy. This is an active criminal case. Civilians need not apply.”
“He’s not just a civilian.” Flora spoke up quickly. “He’s an expert on Jacob in his own right.”
“Hey.” Quincy tapped the table. “I believe the FBI wears that crown.”
“I’m not doing it,” Flora said, “if he’s not around.”
D.D. stared at her CI. Yep, Flora had definitely gone rogue. And was possibly love-struck? Except that didn’t fit with the Flora she knew at all. Meaning . . .
More and more questions. Where would D.D.’s case be without them?
“He signs a nondisclosure.”
“Done.” Edgar spoke up immediately.
“We talk to Dr. Keynes and get his agreement.”
“I’ll do it.” Flora already had out her phone.
“You should tell your mother,” D.D. said, mostly because she was a mom and she just couldn’t help herself.
She got back the answer she expected: a mutinous stare.
D.D. sighed. She didn’t know if this was the best idea or worst idea she’d ever had. She respected Flora’s strength but worried about her self-destructive streak. D.D. needed some kind of fresh approach to get her investigation going, but a “recovered memory” from a night spent binge drinking definitely felt like a stretch.
And yet, for the first time since D.D. had known Flora, the woman was willing to talk about Jacob. She was willing to look backward, at four hundred and seventy-two days of absolutely horrifying memories. There was a determination and resilience in evidence that D.D. had to admire.
If Dr. Keynes helped them, if they started with something easier than Flora climbing back into a pine coffin . . .
Maybe Flora could get the answers she now so desperately wanted. While Kimberly Quincy caught a new lead on six missing women, and D.D. found out what Conrad Carter had been doing on all his business trips and who, other than his wife, might want him dead.
It sounded simple enough. Which probably explained the sinking feeling in D.D.’s stomach. The best-laid plans . . .
Flora was still staring at her. SSA Quincy, too. Flora was going to do it one way or another, D.D. realized. She’d made up her mind sometime in the middle of the night. And once set on a course, she wasn’t the type of person to let anything stop her.
“Fine,” D.D. announced. “A trip down memory lane it is.”
Flora hit dial.