CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Tuesday, March 20, 2018; 9:00 a.m.
A cold front had blown into Richmond, chasing away any hint of spring they’d enjoyed a few days ago. It was thirty degrees when Adler arrived at the Main Street Station office complex.
Turning up the collar of his overcoat, he pushed into the marble lobby. A check of the directory told him Davenport was on the third floor. He rode the elevator and followed the signs to an open doorway at the end of the hall. There was no one at the receptionist desk, and the door behind it was closed. This gave him a moment to study the room’s rich Oriental carpet, the three overstuffed waiting chairs, and a stack of sleek magazines catering to the wealthy. He rapped his knuckles on the desk. “Hello.”
“Yes, I’m here.” The door opened to a man wearing dark pleated pants, a white collared shirt, and blue tie. He was in his midthirties, had sandy-brown hair, and looked like a former jock carrying an extra thirty pounds. After he took a good look at Adler, he reached for a suit jacket and pulled it on.
“I’m Tom Davenport.” He smiled and extended his hand.
Adler shook it and then reached for his badge. “I’m Detective John Adler.”
“Detective.” The smile waned. “What can I do for you?”
“Is there somewhere private we could talk?”
“Sure. The conference room.”
Adler followed Davenport, and when he closed the door, Adler said, “I’m working a murder case. Jennifer Ralston.”
“I heard about that. We went to high school together, but I haven’t seen her for several years. May I ask why you’re here?”
“Gina Mason’s name has come up several times during this investigation. You dated Gina, didn’t you?”
Davenport slid a hand into his pocket. “I did.”
“She broke up with you?”
“That’s right. And yes, I was pissed at the time, but looking back I can see she was right. A clean break made the best sense.”
“Looking back as you say, it had to hurt like hell.”
“Sure. But as I told the cops fourteen years ago, I wasn’t angry enough to hurt her. I loved her and was devastated when she vanished.” He rattled change in his pocket. “Did Kaitlin Roe send you? She wanted to interview me for some project, but I hung up on her.”
“No, but why hang up?”
“I don’t need any more of her manipulative bullshit.”
“How so?”
“She was trouble. Gina and I were doing great, and then Kaitlin moved in with the Masons. She brought so much chaos with her. Gina felt obligated to spend more time with her cousin. I even tried to help where I could, but I got pushed out.”
“How is that Kaitlin’s fault?”
“Gina and I were fine before her.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have left Gina that night when she needed help. And now Kaitlin has some fleeting idea she’s going to fix all this, now?”
“It sounds like you’re still mad.”
“Not at Gina. But sure, I didn’t and still don’t trust Kaitlin Roe.” He shook his head as he dropped his gaze to the floor. “I wish she’d been the one taken, not Gina.”
Davenport had known Jennifer, Erika, and Kaitlin, but Kaitlin had been certain she didn’t recognize her attacker’s voice. She’d spoken to Davenport recently, so she should have been able to identify him. “Did you know someone stabbed Kaitlin?”
His eyes widened with shock. “She’s dead?”
“No, she’ll recover.”
Davenport drew in what felt like a calculated breath.
“Where were you on Saturday afternoon?” Adler asked.
“With my wife and son.”
“And she can confirm this?”
“Yes, but why should she have to?” Davenport was growing angry.
“I’m just covering all the bases.”
“It sounds more like you think I’m a suspect. But then why shouldn’t you? Cops go for the low-hanging fruit, don’t they?” He sounded outraged, insulted, and afraid.
The original investigation had nearly cost him his future, and now he sounded scared this one would as well. “Should you be, Mr. Davenport?”
A bitter smile twisted his lips. “You cops raked me over the coals fourteen years ago. If you have any more questions, submit them to my lawyer.”
Adler had read nothing overtly threatening in the notes written to Jennifer. Now at the state forensic department, Adler would have the opportunity to discuss the handwriting with the technician in charge of the case.
Adler rode the elevator to the fifth floor and made his way down the hall. The glass walls offered a peek into the scientists’ workstations, which were equipped with high-powered microscopes designed to analyze everything from bullet striations to automobile paint chips. Other work zones were outfitted with powerful computers built to analyze drug toxicity, DNA, and any other evidence left at the scene of a crime.
Down the hallway at a lone door, he pressed the intercom button and identified himself. The door latch opened with a click, and he pushed through the secured entrance to find Dana Tipton sitting at her desk peering into a microscope. A white lab coat covered her short frame, and her curly hair was twisted into a tight knot, accentuating large dark-rimmed glasses and sharp green eyes. She rose to shake his hand. “Detective Adler.”
“Dana, thanks for seeing me. I understand you had a chance to look at the notes from the Ralston homicide.”
“I did. I went through them late yesterday.” She carried a file to a light table. She spread out the five notes and clicked on the light. “I checked all for fingerprints. I was able to pull a partial print from the fifth note. It’s a right thumb. But there aren’t enough indicators to make a definitive identification.”
“How many?” Fingerprints had dozens of characteristics, but to make a conclusive identification, the technician needed to match at least six traits.
“I identified four indicators within the print. But I did submit the partial to AFIS. We’ll see what pops.” The Automated Fingerprint Identification System was administered by state police throughout the country and contained millions of criminal and civilian prints. If the owner of this fingerprint had a record or ever worked for the government, it was in the system.
“Okay. Anything else you can tell me?”
She adjusted her glasses. “I do have some ideas about the author.”
Handwriting analysis wasn’t an exact science, but it still could help. “Let’s have it.”
“Every letter begins with ‘My Girl.’ ‘My Girl, you’re still a beautiful woman. My Girl, would you like a ride to work?’ At first glance, the words could be considered an endearment, but ‘My Girl’ is written in bolder letters than the others. The author pressed down much harder when he wrote those words.”
“He’s angry.”
“He’s certainly making a point when he calls her ‘My Girl.’”
“He considers her a child? Lesser than himself, perhaps?”
“Maybe. Or she’s a possession.” She adjusted her glasses again. “The text suggests their connection goes way back. ‘My Girl, remember that last summer by the river?’”
“He’s known her a long time, or he’s stalked her for a long time. What’re the chances it’s a woman?”
She shrugged. “Given the shapes of the letters and the nature of the crime? Slim to none.”
“What else?”
“The handwriting is deliberate and written with care. Note how well formed and neat the letters are.”
“Remind you of an engineer?”
“A drafter’s style exhibits a more specific block style, which I don’t see here. These letters also slant to the right, suggesting he’s left-handed.”
“Could all this have been written deliberately?”
“Sure.” She pointed. “The last note is different than the others. ‘My Girl, what is your biggest regret?’ It appears to have been written quickly, and the letter formations are slightly different than those in the first four. Basically, he’s showing more of himself here whether he realizes it or not.”
“Any indication of when it was written?”
“Unfortunately, no. But if you find this guy, and you can get a handwriting sample, I can match it, Detective.”
Forensic analysis was great at supporting an arrest in court, but when it came to finding a killer, old-fashioned detective work ran circles around the science. In the first few critical days after a murder, every hour counted. “There’s a heart drawn at the bottom of each page.”
She nodded. “It’s not symmetrical, but it also doesn’t feel casually drawn to me. And because it appears in each note, it has meaning to him. I understand the flowers under the victim’s bed were arranged in the shape of a heart.”
“Correct. Anything else?”
“The author chose a nice paper stock. White vellum. Not cheap. Makes me think it’s the second page of more formal stationary.”
“A brand used by one of a million offices?”
“I would say professional offices.”
“What else can you tell me about the author?”
“I’m no profiler, Detective. And some in law enforcement see graphology as one step above witchcraft.”
“Understood. Just looking for general impressions that will help narrow down the author.”
She paused over the third note. “The overall shape of the letters is smaller in scale. People who write smaller tend to be shy and more introverted. The spacing between the words is large, suggesting he likes his space. The edges are sharp, meaning he’s aggressive and assertive.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all I’ve got for now.”
“Have the techs had a chance to examine Erika Crowley’s car?”
“We are pulling prints, and I know multiple dark-hair samples have been found. Mrs. Crowley had blond hair, so we know they don’t belong to her. We did find samples of blond hair in the trunk as well as urine.”
“He put her in the trunk.”
“That’s my guess. I can tell you the GPS in her car tracked the vehicle path. It went directly from the yoga studio to the gas station on Route 1. A forensic technician did take several tire casts beside the vehicle.”
“He switched cars.”
“Most likely.”
“Thanks, Dana.”
As he left the offices his phone rang. It was Quinn.
“I just received a call from a local vet. A woman found a Siamese stray and dropped it off at the vet. He checked for a chip.”
“It’s Jennifer Ralston’s cat?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Where was the cat found?”
“Chesterfield County near Hull Street and Courthouse Road.”
“That’s twenty miles from Church Hill.”
“The vet had no other information. He did say his client is keeping the cat unless someone claims it. I have her name and number if you want to talk to her.”
“Okay.”
“I also received several more security videos of Erika’s house. I’ve been watching them for the last couple of hours. Brad Crowley last appeared on tape five days ago.”
“Five days. Erika vanished on Saturday. Did any of the neighbors make a comment about seeing him?”
“A few did. He came and went from the home several times a day, even during a normal workweek. Apparently, he liked to have lunch at home.”
“And Erika?”
“She doesn’t leave the house much. Just as her husband said, she travels to her yoga studio two mornings a week and that’s about it. Groceries and most clothing are delivered. She tells everyone she’s an artist and is working in her home studio.”
“So either she’s agoraphobic or she was a virtual prisoner in her home.”
The sun had set when he looked through the cab window to the tarp wrapped around Erika’s body in the bed of his truck. It was hidden under random debris so it wasn’t visible, though soon it would smell. He’d killed her in a spontaneous moment that he now regretted. He should have left her in her cell to rot.
He could have buried Erika. There were plenty of places he could put her where she’d never be found. But he didn’t want her death to be a waste. He wanted her found. Displayed. Erika would help send a message to Kaitlin. You’re next.
He started the engine and drove toward the city. The truck bed rattled, but Erika’s body was nice and snug.
As he drove toward the heart of Richmond on the expressway, police lights flashed in his rearview mirror and he tensed, gripping the wheel until his knuckles whitened. He was driving the speed limit. He’d used a turn signal when crossing lanes. What the hell?
The cop car hit his siren, a sure sign he had to pull over. Tension crept up his spine. His breathing grew shallow as he glanced in the mirror again and then back at the road.
He could stomp on the gas and make a run for it. But that wouldn’t end well. Better to stay calm and play along. He could fool anybody.
“I can do this,” he said to himself. “I can do this.” He repeated the words like a mantra until the stress eased.
He turned on his blinker and pulled off on the shoulder of the road. He reached for his driver’s license and registration. He rolled down his window and placed his hands on the steering wheel.
The cop got out of his car and moved toward the truck. He touched the tailgate to leave fingerprints, proof he had made contact if it all went sour, and then he walked up slowly along the truck.
“Good evening,” the officer said.
“Yes, sir. Good evening. Was I speeding?”
“No, sir, but your back taillight is out.”
“Really? I had no idea.” He handed the officer his driver’s license and registration. “Figured you need these.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror and watched the cop return to his vehicle and type his plates into his computer. The cop would search his record for warrants and other traffic violations, and he’d find only a fourteen-year-old speeding ticket. He was the good boy. Just play it cool.
For a brief moment he imagined the plastic tarp moved in the breeze. He blinked and watched closely in the rearview mirror, his heart beating faster, as he waited for the wind to calm.
The cop came back to the car. “Looks like you have a pretty clean driving record.”
He smiled. “I do try.”
“I’m going to have to give you a ticket. But if you get pulled over again in the next forty-eight hours, show them this. You need to get the light fixed for your own safety.”
“I was working on the damn thing last week. There must be a short in the wires. I’ll take it to a garage first thing.”
The officer stared at him an extra beat and then handed him the ticket. He signed it and handed it back.
The officer ripped off his portion of the ticket. “Have a nice evening.”
“Will do. Thank you, Officer.”
He sat still, not moving for a moment. Jesus, that cop was less than a foot from the body. He’d come so close to capture.
But he hadn’t been caught. He was getting better at this, and if he were real careful, he’d never be caught.
Drawing in a breath, he waited for the all clear and pulled into traffic. Time to dump the body.
He drove to the Shockoe Bottom section of Richmond and located the alley he had already searched for surveillance cameras. It was one block from Kaitlin’s apartment.
Moving quickly, he backed into the alley and cut the lights. Tugging a ball cap over his eyes, he opened the back tailgate, reached under the tarp, and grabbed Erika’s ankles. Her skin was cold to the touch, but the rigor mortis had left her limbs, and she was again pliable.
He pulled her forward and carried her limp body to the end of the alley. Quickly he leaned her against the dumpster. He brushed the hair back from her eyes and smoothed it over her shoulders. He spread her legs and placed each hand on an inner thigh.
Pulling a red marker from his pocket, he drew a heart on her chest. “This is for you, Gina,” he whispered.
It was after visitor’s hours when there was a knock on Kaitlin’s door. She was surfing the television channels to pass the time. “Time for another lab sample?” She resigned herself to another procedure.
Instead of the young nurse with glasses and brown hair, Adler appeared. His tie was loose, and the stubble on his jaw was thick. “Sorry, no nurse.”
“Too bad.” Stupid, but she was glad to see him. “It’s always a treat to have a nurse jab a needle in my arm. What are you doing here?”
He held up a bag.
“Sorbet, again?” Beware of cops bearing gifts.
“Doughnuts. Cops know where to get the best ones in the city.”
“Is it true?” She grinned.
“It is.” The half smile was charming, and if Adler wasn’t a cop, she might have been charmed.
“As it so happens, I’m now on some solid foods.”
“Then you’re in luck.”
He pulled up his chair and handed her a napkin. He glanced in the bag. “Chocolate glazed or plain?”
“Plain. Let’s keep it simple.”
With a napkin he plucked out a plain one and handed it to her. Its aroma made her mouth water. She bit into it. Adler was batting two for two with her so far.
She took another bite before she asked, “So what’re you really here for? Feeding me isn’t a priority. You look like a man with questions.”
He tossed her a sideways glance meant to disarm. “Am I that obvious?”
She chuckled and felt charmed nonetheless. “You use that look with suspects?”
“I do.” He bit into the doughnut with no air of repentance or worry about calories. “I met with a forensic investigator who is analyzing several notes Jennifer received.”
She pulled off a piece. “And?”
“Without getting into too much detail, I can tell you he signed each one with a heart. Does that mean anything to you?”
Kaitlin set her doughnut down as a memory rushed out from the past. If the killer had left a heart, he’d definitely been involved in the search for Gina. She reached for a pad and pen on her nightstand and drew a particular heart she’d seen many times. “When Gina was first missing, the volunteer groups developed a kind of logo. It was Gina’s name with a heart drawn over top of it.”
“Who came up with the logo?”
She handed him the paper. “It was my idea to add it to the flyer, because she loved hearts. She had several necklaces that were heart shaped.”
“It was your idea?”
“Yeah.”
“The heart symbol was well known?”
“Yes. All the volunteer posters and flyers had it, and several news organizations came up with graphics that incorporated it. It would have been hard to miss.”
“A colleague of mine is reading the file, but our focus has been on the abduction and not the search. How many volunteers were on the search teams?”
“Hundreds. There was an organized system, and in that group there were teams of ten. Volunteers stood side by side and walked open fields and brush for hours searching for clues. There were also people who weren’t sanctioned as official searchers, and they ventured out on their own.”
“Have you spoken to any of those volunteers?”
“George Dunkin. He’s on a canine tracking team who volunteered over a hundred hours on the search.”
“You gave me Jennifer’s tape, but I need all of them, Kaitlin.”
“Sure. I’ll send them all.”
“Can you do it now?”
“Hand me my laptop.”
He dusted off his crumbs, tossing the half-eaten doughnut in the trash. He retrieved the laptop from the side table and gently set it on her lap. She opened it, pushed a few buttons, and hit “Send.”
“On their way.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not sure how my interviews will help.”
“Jennifer’s stalking, her murder, Erika’s disappearance, and your stabbing all started when you began your research.” He wasn’t smiling now, and his tone had sharpened just a little.
There was a time she’d have felt backed into a corner by his harsh tone. But she was coming to recognize this was how he sounded when he was working a case. She drew in a breath. She needed and wanted to believe he wasn’t going to throw her under the bus if the case got too hot to handle.
He held her gaze. “Are you sharing everything with me?”
“You know all that I know now, Detective.”
“And you will keep me in the loop if you learn anything new?”
“Yes. Will you do the same?”
“I can’t promise that right now. I wish that I could, but I can’t. The case has to come first.”
She didn’t like hearing that, but she sensed he was being honest.
“How did you choose your interview subjects?” If Adler realized he’d upset her, he didn’t seem to care.
“I went through all the media reports I could find and made a list of everyone mentioned and went from there. I interviewed whoever would talk to me.”
“Any idea who killed Jennifer?”
She ran a trembling hand through her hair. She felt like a raw nerve. “I want to help and to remember. I’ve been through hypnotherapy before, but I could do it again.”
Adler arched a brow. “If it comes to that, we’ll talk about it. What does your gut say about this killer?”
She drew in a breath, dialing down her anger. “I’m trying to set up an appointment with Steven Marcus, the reporter who covered Gina’s disappearance extensively and who knows the case better than anyone. I’m hoping he has more ideas.”
“I haven’t talked to Marcus.”
“Excluding North, he’s your best expert on Gina’s case.”
Adler wrote down the name. “Do you have a number?”
She reached for her phone and rattled it off. “He’s on deadline and won’t be available until Saturday.”
“Maybe you can include me in your meeting.”
“Sure. I’ll let you know when we make contact.”
His phone buzzed, and he looked down. A heavy sigh hissed over clenched teeth. “Erika Crowley has been found.”
“Is she all right?”
“I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”
She tried to swing her legs over the side of the bed, forgetting for a split second why she was here. A shot of white-hot pain reminded her. “So you’re just going to leave me hanging like this? You aren’t going to tell me what’s going on?”
“For now, no.”