The Truth Seeker

  She was looking for a particular man, a particular killer. He would repeat himself.

  The home invasions where robberies had resulted in a homeowner being killed—she’d already seen several of them. And the shootings—several were thought to be drug-related cases; those might be linked.

  She went over to the shelves with the stacks of boxes she had yet to go through. Diane had done a first pass through the boxes, finding the original case numbers and figuring out which had some information already online, getting the basics entered for the remaining cases.

  She brought up the database Diane was building and saw that all two hundred and sixty case numbers had been entered, and while the case subclassification had just begun, the date, location, and original detectives working on the case had been entered.

  Lisa sorted the cases by date, called up the summary report, and printed a copy. She found a red pen, pushed the metal shelves around on their wheels to scan the boxes, and located the first case on the list.

  The box was heavy and slid out to land with a thud on the tile floor. She sorted through the files until she found the crime scene photos. A shooting. She noted it on the printout and closed the box, then wrestled it back onto the shelf. The second case on the list was one she had already reviewed. An assault; the lady had died two days later from a fractured skull. She scrawled that in the margin.

  The third case was on the top shelf. She eased the box down to the floor, holding her breath as it tried to shift before she was braced for the weight.

  Lisa could feel an odd sense of relief building. This was a puzzle she now had a way to attack. She wanted a solution to at least some of these cases; it had become a very personal challenge. The victims were tugging at her, demanding justice.

  The buzzards were circling. Quinn reined in his horse at the sight, lifting his hat to shade his eyes as he looked to the south. He left his current job of moving cattle to veer off and investigate. In calving season they usually lost one or two heifers at birth and it was always a personal loss. He almost preferred losing one to the occasional wolf than losing one to birth.

  He had been back from college only a few weeks and his back was sore, not yet accustomed to being back in the saddle for twelve hours a day. He rode toward the circling birds and found himself riding into darkness, the spacious landscape slowly disappearing from his peripheral view for the memories he was riding back into were black.

  The bluffs were always dangerous places both to people and to cattle.

  A man was on the ground, and even from a hundred yards away the red staining the back of the shirt was visible.

  Dad!

  Quinn choked as he woke in the hotel room to the strident sound of his beeper going off, sweating in the chilly room. The sheet was tangled in a knot around him. If he ever did marry, he’d run the risk of tossing his wife off the bed with his flailing around. The nightmare came more often now that he was actively working a lead for the case. He struggled out of the dream and back to the present, reaching for the pager that continued to sound.

  He didn’t recognize the number, but he couldn’t ignore it. His hand reaching for the phone sent his watch and an empty water glass falling. He punched in the numbers. “What?” he growled at the intruder of his restless sleep.

  “Quinn?”

  “Lisa?” he queried, regretting the fact he’d barked. She’d hesitated to answer him. He turned around the alarm clock and the red lights glowed back at him. 1:42 A.M. He clicked on the bedside light. “What’s wrong?” She had called him exactly once in all the years he had known her, and at this time of night . . .

  “I can’t see a clock and I’m not wearing a watch. What time is it?”

  “Late. What’s wrong? Where are you?”

  “The office.”

  Some of his tension eased. Not at home with a problem, not in a car accident somewhere. But with that injury . . . “Are you okay?” Getting answers out of her was like pulling teeth.

  “Quinn, I’m fine,” she replied, her voice tinged with annoyance. “Now would you listen?”

  He closed his eyes to stop his first reply. “I’m listening.”

  “I’ve found something you should see.”

  He waited and she didn’t add anything. “Okay,” he said cautiously.

  “Well are you coming?”

  “Now?”

  “Quinn—”

  “Hold it, before you get mad at me—you woke me up, Lisa. Give me a minute here. What’s going on?”

  There was dead silence that lingered. When she finally spoke her voice was edged with sarcasm. “Never mind. I’ll call Marcus.”

  “Don’t hang up,” he ordered, half afraid she already had. He’d just blown it with her. And he deserved to. O’Malleys didn’t ask questions. He’d seen Marcus catch a flight at a moment’s notice when Lisa said she needed to see him, not asking why, the request itself sufficient. Lisa did not make unnecessary or trivial requests; none of the O’Malleys did. “I’ll be there. Give me twenty minutes.”

  He held his breath until he got her terse reply. “I’ll tell the security guard to expect you.”

  The bakery down the block from the state crime lab had its lights on, the staff beginning preparations for the dawn onslaught of customers. Quinn bought four still-warm blueberry muffins. It wasn’t much of an apology, but it was something. Not hardly enough though. She’d actually called him before her family and he’d blown it. He had a headache and it was his own fault.

  Quinn pulled open the door to the lab. He waited at the security desk while the downtown marshal’s office confirmed his ID and the security guard cleared him, then clipped on the guest badge and headed upstairs.

  The door to the task force room was closed, but light was visible beneath it. Quinn opened the door and was met with the assault of another wailing saxophone. He had to get her some better music.

  Lisa was leaning over the light table, studying a set of X-rays. She had said she was okay, but it was a relief to see for himself. She had been here all day; she was still wearing the blue-and-white striped shirt he enjoyed because it set off her eyes fabulously, and her blue jeans were the well-washed pair speckled in white patches where bleach had washed out the color. He thought of them as her old comfortable favorites and knew when he saw her wearing them that she’d had something rough happen the previous day or night and had instinctively gone for comfort. “You’re late,” she commented, not looking up.

  “Food.”

  She looked around, spotted the sack, and her smiled flashed immediately. “You’re forgiven, and thank you. There’s not even a vending machine on this floor and I’m famished.” She nodded toward a desk. “There is safe.”

  He set down the sack and tossed his keys beside it.

  “I’ve got four women found as skeletons across the Chicagoland area, just like Rita Beck. Only their four cases are still open.”

  He stopped in the act of ditching his hat. This was definitely worth being pulled out of bed in the middle of the night to hear. He dropped the hat on the desk. “Which cases?”

  She gestured immediately to her right. “These four tables.” The case boxes were open, the files laid out on the tables.

  “Please tell me Grant Danford knew them all.”

  “Quinn . . . I just got started.”

  “Sorry. Tell me what you’ve got.”

  She sat down on the edge of the desk, picked up a marker, and began to add information to the rolling whiteboard she pulled over. “Martha Treemont, found in 1993, missing for six years. Heather Ashburn, found in 1995, missing for ten years. Vera Wane, found in 1998, missing two years. And Marla Sherrall, found last year, missing eight years.”

  “And if Grant Danford is responsible, add Rita Beck, found in 1997, missing eight years, and a suspicion of Amy Ireland, missing for twenty years.”

  “Yes.”

  “Five, possibly six cases, going back twenty years.”

  “That we know of.”

&nbs
p; He nodded, accepting the very valid qualification. If there was a pattern in these deaths, it was that the evidence of the murder was only uncovered years later. There would be more victims than just these five if they were linked.

  He picked up one of the dropped darts from the floor, twirling it between his fingers as he looked at the dates she had written on the board. “A common MO in the victims?”

  “A twenty-four-year-old architect student, a sixty-two-year-old retired widow, a forty-five-year-old former landscape nursery worker, and a thirty-two-year-old French bakery worker.”

  He was puzzled at that. “It doesn’t fit Rita or Amy.”

  “Women, all single; different geographic areas, different economic statuses, a vast age range.”

  “Lisa, you’ve lost me. Having five open cases over fifteen years in this surrounding area where the female victim was buried is not surprising given the number of murders each year.”

  “You’re right. And there are another twelve cases vaguely similar that I set aside as explainable to different factors—obvious gunshot wounds, known abusive situations, suspected family violence. But these—Quinn, I don’t know how to better explain it than the fact the hair on the back of my neck stood on end when I scanned the reports. It’s what isn’t there. No obvious blows, gunshots, no apparent causes of death—just a skeleton appearing in the earth buried face down. Three of the four cases show hands behind the back, the other was moved before it could be noted; two of the cases show remains of duct tape.”

  Quinn winced. “An MO in the method but random victims.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then let’s hope it is Grant—or at least someone already behind bars.” He read the names and dates, made an educated guess. “They weren’t connected before because they come from different jurisdictions.”

  “Different jurisdictions over a long period of years, and several of the cases were not even in the computer databases until this review began.”

  “Where do you want me to start?”

  “I need the who, what, where, and when summarized for each. I’ve got to get focused on the physical evidence and see how similar they really are. Quinn—”

  “I know. If this is one killer, and it’s not Grant, you just landed in one of the biggest, deepest messes of your life.” Women were disappearing and turning up as bones years later.

  She looked hesitant. “Thanks for helping. This may be a false alarm and there’s nothing here. I was kind of rude about waking you up.”

  He reached over and slid his hand behind her neck, wanting the contact just to make his reassurance reach inside and go deeper than words. His thumb rubbed the back of her neck and she slowly relaxed under his touch.

  He hated knowing he had contributed to her hesitation and wanted to ensure she didn’t hesitate next time she considered calling him. “The ghosts in here are thick. If you’re wrong, I’ll buy you breakfast and enjoy the fact you asked for my company. If you’re right—you’ll be stuck with me and Lincoln like your own personal shadows. Please don’t count my rather abysmal initial reaction against me. I appreciate that you called.”

  “Maybe next time you won’t be so surprised when you hear it’s me calling.”

  He smiled at that soft acceptance of his apology. “I found it a very nice surprise that I would like very much to have repeated.”

  She grasped his forearm and squeezed as she nodded.

  He reluctantly lowered his hand. “Get started on the physical evidence and I’ll start reviewing the files. We both know Rita Beck’s case inside and out. If these have a similar feel, it will be obvious to both of us. Do you have what you need here, or do you want to go over to the cold storage evidence vaults?”

  “I’ve got the basics here: the crime scene photographs, autopsy reports, and the X-ray slides.”

  “Then eat a muffin, and get to work.”

  She crossed over to the desk and opened the sack. “Do I have to share?”

  He glanced over from the folder he had picked up and smiled at that subtle plea in her voice. “If that’s dinner, then no, have all four.”

  “If I wasn’t about to inhale this muffin I’d tell you thanks again.”

  “You’re welcome. And you’re easy to please.”

  She sat down holding the first muffin and spun her chair around toward the light board. “You have good taste in food, unlike Kate, who tends to get the banana nut ones.”

  “Good taste?”

  “I’m not afraid to admit it when you’re occasionally right.”

  “In that case, how about dinner some night and I’ll show you what really good food is?”

  “I like hot stuff.”

  “You would. I’ll see what I can come up with.”

  “Thai is good.”

  “Plan to pick the restaurant too?”

  She smiled. “Just broadening your palate a bit.”

  “You’ll have to get more creative than that. I’ve eaten at the best ethnic neighborhood restaurants from New York to L.A.”

  “A challenge?”

  “I can probably spring for two meals if you want to compare choices.”

  “Deal. I’m hungry. And I’m broke.”

  The admission made him laugh. “What did you buy now?”

  “It’s still on layaway at the gallery. I found a Krauthmerr portrait. It’s fabulous. I needed a break Monday, so I took a late lunch and went browsing. The hike in my homeowner insurance payments is going to kill me but it’s worth it.”

  She was so pleased with herself; he enjoyed enormously sharing that pleasure. “And I wonder why it is so hard to find something good when I’m at the galleries. You’ve been there first.”

  “Guilty.”

  He loved the fact they shared a passion for art. “Just to satisfy my curiosity, the last time I invited you to dinner—where in the world did you get that petrified squid you sent me in reply?”

  Her eyes danced as she laughed. “Trade secret.”

  “I found it to be a very unique no.”

  “I’d hate to be thought of as less than original.” She turned on the hotshot bulb to warm up. “If you can keep a secret, I’ll show you my real treasures. They’re in my office filing cabinet.”

  “You collect odd specimens.”

  “The more unusual the better. Would you hand me that red folder by your left elbow? It should be Heather Ashburn’s dental records.”

  Quinn flipped it open, confirmed that it was, and handed the folder over.

  She turned her attention back to work. Quinn watched her for a few minutes, then turned his attention to the first case and reached for the initial police report.

  When he finished reading the details of the fourth case, dawn was less than an hour away. Lisa was taking measurements from a set of X-rays, jotting numbers on a pad of paper. “See anything there?”

  She absently nodded as she moved the caliper. “Martha Treemont. There’s a fracture in her radius as if her arm was first rotated behind her back and then struck a hard surface: The bone shattered up into the elbow joint. She put up a fight; that seems to be common to these cases.”

  Quinn saw her rub her eyes, and that frown was back. She had a tension headache and the way she was sitting her back was hurting too. He closed his file. “We need to visit the most recent scene. After you get some sleep.”

  She looked over at him and set aside what she was doing. “Marla Sherrall?”

  “Yes. The way she was buried—it’s Rita Beck all over again. Face down, hands behind her back, no apparent cause of death.”

  “Yes, it is,” she admitted. “And you’re right, it would be good to see the scene.”

  He leaned forward, rested his forearms on his knees, and studied her, something in her voice alerting him. “Lisa, what’s wrong?” His voice gentled. “Did you work this case too? I didn’t see your name on the reports, but I know you would have helped.”

  “No, I was out of the country when she was found. I did some of t
he lab work, helped during the analysis when the case got cold, but that’s not it.” She looked away from him as she got to her feet, but he could see the tension in her posture. “I once lived down the block from where she was found.”

  Twelve

  Marla Sherrall’s body had been found here, within sight of the hummingbirds. Lisa looked around the grove of white birch and weeping willow trees, the place peaceful but forever marked by the blight of what had occurred. The public park and small pond adjoined the zoo, the land an expansion area should they need to extend the exhibit space.

  “I doubt she was killed here,” she said quietly, pushing aside the low-hanging limbs of the weeping willow tree to get closer to where the grave had been discovered. It was an awkward place, isolated, but remote only in that the focus was on the adjoining exhibits in the zoo to the right side of the path, and not on this stand of trees to the left.

  “Agreed. But he made an effort to bring her back here.”

  “Location is important to him. Maybe central.” She studied the damage at the base of the willow tree. Decay had rotted the tree trunk, causing sap to run out. It was too near the zoo to use pesticides to kill the beetle infestation. Park personnel had been digging out the tree when their shovel had hit Marla’s left arm, breaking the radius bone.

  “It reads that way, given the chance he was taking to bury her here.”

  She nodded even as she tried to think like the man. Why here? There was a reason. Marla had been buried near water, sometimes a significant signature. She’d been buried in her own neighborhood. Was the proximity to the zoo significant?

  Knolls Park was hidden in the north section of Chicago within an easy commute to downtown. The streets were narrow; the oak trees tall, old, and overhanging the streets; most homes brick two-storied, tall, and narrow with steep roofs. The upper-middle-class community was made unique by the small zoo. It was the community’s pride and joy and thrived as the local alternative to the much larger downtown zoo.

  This was a community that still had local businesses in its downtown—an ice-cream shop, an upscale clothing store, a bridal shop, a gift card shop, and two local restaurants along the main street. The French bakery where Marla had worked was between the library and the bank, a fourteen-minute walk away. They had timed it to figure out if someone could have stalked her from work, caught her alone on the path, and killed her here. But the location suggested it had been a much more deliberate act, planned long before it occurred.