The cursor wouldn’t buy it.
Baseball. I got the box and pulled the trophy. June 24, 1983.
DOB. Date of league championship. Combined. Scrambled. Inverted.
No sale.
I played with Cruikshank’s address and every date on the AFIS sheet.
By four thirty I’d run out of ideas.
“I don’t have enough personal information,” I said to the empty kitchen.
Boyd shot to his feet.
“Still mad about the stingy walk?”
Boyd’s mouth opened and his tongue drooped over one purple gum.
“You chows are a forgiving breed.”
The chow cocked his head and tipped his ears forward.
“Let’s switch to the files.”
Shutting down the laptop, I moved to the den. Boyd padded along.
Cruikshank’s file carton was still on the window seat. I took it to the coffee table and sat on the couch.
Boyd hopped up beside me. Our eyes met. Boyd dropped back to the floor.
The box held about forty manila folders, each with a handwritten date and name. Some files were fat, others thin. I ran through the tabs.
The files were organized chronologically. I could tell from the dates there were times Cruikshank was working multiple cases. There were also gaps, presumably his periods of heavy drinking.
I pulled the oldest file.
Murdock, Deborah Anne. August 2000. C.
Deborah Murdock’s folder held the following:
Shorthand notes similar to those in Helene Flynn’s file.
Canceled checks drawn on the joint account of Deborah and Jason Murdock. The last was written December 4, 2000.
Photos of a couple entering or exiting a restaurant, bar, or motel.
Letters addressed to Jason Murdock in Moncks Corner, South Carolina, and signed by Noble Cruikshank. The letters spanned the period from September to November 2000.
I was getting the drift. I read only one letter.
Yep. Deborah was the woman in the pics. The man wasn’t Jason.
I moved on.
Lang, Henry. December 2000. C.
Same deal. Notes, checks, photos, reports. Cruikshank spent six months on this one. Here it was hubby who was stepping out.
Next folder.
Todman, Kyle. February 2001. C.
This case involved an antiques dealer who suspected his partner of ripping him off. It took Cruikshank a month to nail the swindler.
I pulled file after file. The stories had a sad sameness to them. Cheating spouses. Missing parents. Runaway teens. Few had happy endings. What is it they say? If you acknowledge your suspicion, it’s probably true.
I looked at the clock. Six fifteen. I wondered what Pete was doing.
I wondered what Ryan was doing.
I checked my cell. No messages. The battery was fine.
Of course it was.
Back to the files.
Ethridge, Parker. March 2002.
This was one of the fattest jackets in the carton.
Parker Ethridge, age fifty-eight, lived by himself. In March 2002 Parker’s son went to collect him for a long-planned fishing trip. Ethridge wasn’t home and was never seen again. Cruikshank spent over a year investigating, but to no avail. Ethridge junior fired him in May 2003.
Franklin, Georgia. March 2004. C.
In November 2003, a nineteen-year-old coed disappeared from her dorm at the College of Charleston. Four months later, dissatisfied with police progress, Georgia’s parents hired Cruikshank to find their daughter. He did. Living with a Buddhist jewelry maker in Asheville, North Carolina.
Poe, Harmon. April 2004. Unemployed male. Last seen at the Ralph H. Johnson VA Medical Center. Reported missing by a friend.
Friguglietti, Sylvia. May 2004. C. Elderly female. Wandered from an assisted living center. Found floating in the harbor near Patriot’s Point.
Again, I checked my watch and my cell.
Seven fifty-two. No calls.
Discouraged, I rolled my shoulders and stretched my arms overhead. Boyd opened sleepy lids.
“It wasn’t a complete waste of time,” I said.
Boyd rolled his eyes up at me.
“I’ve learned that C on a tab means the case was closed.”
Boyd looked unconvinced. I didn’t care. I was getting somewhere.
Dropping my arms, I picked up where I’d left off.
Snype, Daniel. August 2004. Disappeared while visiting Charleston from Savannah, Georgia. Return bus ticket unused. Reported missing by granddaughter, Tiffany Snype.
Walton, Julia. September 2004. C. Runaway housewife found living with her boyfriend in Tampa, Florida.
Some of the most recent files contained only newspaper clippings and a few shorthand notes. No checks. No photos. No reports.
I read several clippings. Each described a missing person.
“Were these cases Cruikshank was hired to investigate?”
Boyd had no answer to that.
“Or was he looking at MPs for some other reason?”
Or that.
Opening the last file, I read another clipping.
A name caught my interest.
17
HOMER WINBORNE’S BYLINE GRACED THE MOST recent article. Less than two column inches, the piece reported on the 2004 disappearance of a man named Lonnie Aikman.
A Mount Pleasant woman is asking Charleston residents to keep an eye out for her son. Lonnie Aikman, 34, has been missing for two years, Susie Ruth Aikman told the Moultrie News.
“He just vanished,” said Aikman. “He said, ‘Catch you later, Mom,’ and went off and never come back.”
When police failed to locate Lonnie, Aikman consulted a psychic and was told her son was in the Charleston area. Aikman says seeing the psychic was a last resort.
“When you lose someone you’re willing to believe in anything that will give you hope,” she explained.
Aikman searched and put up posters asking anyone with information to call her, the Charleston police, or the sheriff’s office. Aikman says her son suffers from schizophrenia and was taking medication at the time of his disappearance. She fears he may have been kidnapped.
“I’m afraid he’s somewhere being held against his will,” said Aikman.
Lonnie Aikman is 5'8″ and weighs 160 pounds. He has green eyes and brown hair.
The piece ran in the Moultrie News on March 14. Cruikshank had circled Aikman’s age, the date of his disappearance, and the word “schizophrenia.”
I checked several clippings. Similar information had been circled in each.
So Cruikshank was collecting stories on missing persons. These didn’t appear to be client-initiated investigations. The files contained no checks. No reports. Why the interest?
Two of Cruikshank’s files contained only handwritten notes. One was labeled Helms, Willie, the other Montague, Unique. Their placement in the carton suggested they’d been created shortly before Cruikshank’s death. Why? Who were Willie Helms and Unique Montague?
Frustrated, I began a spreadsheet and went back through the folders, pulling out unsolved missing persons cases.
Ethridge, Parker, white male, 58, 5 feet 7 inches, 135 pounds, gray hair, blue eyes. Last seen March 2002.
Moon, Rosemarie, black female, 28, 5 feet 3 inches, 105 pounds, red hair, brown eyes. Last seen November 2002. Known drug user and sex trade worker.
Watley, Ruby Anne, black female, 39, 5 feet 5 inches, 140 pounds, black shoulder-length hair, brown eyes. Last seen July 2003. Known drug user and sex trade worker.
Poe, Harmon, 39, white male, 5 feet 11 inches, 155 pounds, brown hair, brown eyes. Last seen April 2004. Known drug user.
Snype, Daniel, 27, black male, 5 feet 5 inches, 120 pounds, blond shoulder-length hair, brown eyes. Last seen June 2004. Known drug user and sex trade worker.
Aikman, Lonnie, white male, 34, 5 feet 8 inches, 160 pounds, green eyes, brown hair. Last seen spring 2004. Schizophrenic.
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The Dewees case matched none of the profiles. I added it to the spreadsheet.
CCC-2006020277, white male, 35–50, 5 feet 10 inches to 6 foot 1 inch, blond hair. Fractured C-6 vertebra. Nicks on twelfth rib, twelfth thoracic vertebra, and upper lumbar vertebrae. Buried on Dewees.
Winborne had written his article in March. Did Aikman’s disappearance explain Winborne’s behavior on Dewees? Did the reporter think we’d stumbled across Lonnie?
Cruikshank had clipped Winborne’s story on or after March 14. Was Aikman’s the last file he opened?
And why the Helms and Montague files? What was contained in the coded comments?
I was trying to make sense of my notes when Pete arrived.
“It is I, the great bearer of pizza,” his voice boomed from the foyer.
I heard keys hit a tabletop, then Pete appeared in the doorway. He was in chinos and what looked disturbingly like a bowling shirt. A Hornets cap completed the ensemble.
Boyd shot over and circled the great bearer’s ankles, nose sniffing the grease-stained box in his hands.
“I bought a large on the chance that you were here and hungry. Why are you working without lights?”
I’d been so intent on my spreadsheet I hadn’t noticed the room dim. My watch now said eight twenty.
“Why is it dark so early?”
“There’s a kick-ass storm moving in. The whole island’s battening down hatches. Do we have hatches? Are they battened?”
I noticed Pete’s cap. “Bad news, Pete. The Hornets moved to New Orleans.”
“I like the colors.” Pete took the cap off and admired the logo.
“Purple and turquoise?”
“Not turquoise, you boor. Teal. Hues chosen by Alexander Julian and envied all across the league.”
“Designer hues or not, the team left Charlotte.”
Tossing the cap to a sideboard, Pete tipped his head at the files stacked beside me. “What are you doing?”
A tickle from my lower centers. Heads-up!
What? Heads-up to what?
“Ground control to Tempe.”
I snapped back.
“What are you doing?” Pete repeated.
“Going through Cruikshank’s cases.”
“Cruikshank’s PC, I assume. Any luck with it?”
I shook my head. “Can’t fathom a password. Where have you been all day?”
“Trapped in fiduciary hell. What’s brown and black and looks good on accountants?”
Knowing it was a mistake, I raised both palms.
“Doberman pinschers.”
“That’s lame.”
“But true. These guys must choose accounting because they lack the charisma to be undertakers.”
“Did you quiz Herron about Helene Flynn?”
“The good reverend felt we should start with the books.”
My brows drifted upward.
“Don’t give me that look. Buck hired me to trace his money. In the process I was to learn what I could about the daughter.”
“Did you tell Herron that Cruikshank is dead?”
“Yes.”
“His reaction?”
“Shock, sadness, and a heartfelt wish for a peaceful rest. Find anything in the files?”
“Maybe.”
We moved to the porch. The breeze was spinning the ceiling fan without aid of electricity.
I set out plates and napkins. Pete divvied up pizza. As we ate, I explained what I’d learned.
“A C on the tab means the case was closed.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“That’s what I told Boyd.”
Boyd’s ears shot forward. His nose never left the table edge.
“A lot of Cruikshank’s recent files contained nothing but clippings on missing persons. I made a spreadsheet and started looking for patterns. What are these things?” I pointed to small black globs on my pizza.
“Dried currants. And?”
“Since 2002, Cruikshank opened jackets on two women and four men reported missing in the Charleston area. No checks or reports. He also had a couple that held nothing but notes.”
“So he wasn’t actually hired to look for those people.”
“That’s my take.”
Pete gave the idea some thought. “Could the Dewees guy be one of Cruikshank’s MPs?”
“He’s not really a match for any of them.”
“Who are they?”
“One male is black, three are white. Their ages range from twenty-seven to fifty-eight. One guy works in the sex trade. Two are drug users. One is schizophrenic. The women are black, twenty-eight and thirty-nine. Both are prostitutes and drug users.”
“Think it could be some kind of serial killer, maybe a predator grabbing hookers and druggies? Fringe people no one will miss?”
“I don’t know the exact date Aikman went missing. Or the Dewees man. But eight months elapsed between the disappearances of Ethridge and Moon, another eight between Moon and Watley. Then it’s nine months until Poe. Two months later, it’s Snype. If it’s a serial, the progression is atypical.”
“Aren’t serial killers typically atypical?” Pete helped himself to more pizza.
“These profiles are all over the map. Men, women. Black, white. Ages range from twenty-seven to fifty-eight.”
“Not restricted to teenage street boys? Or coeds with long, center-parted hair?”
“You’re a profiler now?” Acknowledging Pete’s references to victim types preferred by John Gacy and Ted Bundy.
“A mere savant. And bearer of pizza.”
“Whose idea was the currants?” I asked.
“Arturo’s.”
For a few moments we listened to waves pound the shore. I broke the silence.
“The article on Lonnie Aikman was written by Homer Winborne. It appeared in the Moultrie News on March fourteenth. So we know Cruikshank was alive then.”
“Winborne’s the guy who showed up at your site?”
I nodded.
“Did you call him?”
“I will.”
“Any word from Monsieur—”
“No.” I took another slice, plucked currants, and set them on my plate.
“A bit gastronomically rigid,” Pete said.
“Currants and anchovies don’t really mix. Tell me what happened with Herron.”
“I never actually met Herron.”
Pete described his day with the GMC accountants. He wasn’t exaggerating. It sounded deadly. I remembered what Gullet had told me.
“Someone in the sheriff’s office ID’d that brick building in the pictures on Cruikshank’s disc.”
“Oh, yeah?” Garbled by pizza.
“It’s a free clinic run by GMC.”
“Where?”
“Nassau Street.”
Pete’s jaw froze, then he swallowed. “That’s where Helene Flynn worked. At least at one point.”
“That was my guess. So it makes sense Cruikshank would stake the place out.”
Pete wiped his mouth, balled his napkin, and tossed it onto his plate. “Is Gullet going to follow up?”
“Neither Dewees nor Cruikshank is topping the sheriff’s agenda. I showed him the two fractured vertebrae, but he’s still not convinced either man was murdered.”
“Maybe I should—”
“Gullet definitely does not want you making contact with anyone at that clinic. He was very clear on that.”
“What could it hurt—”
“No.”
“Why not?” Pete’s voice had an edge. I knew that edge. My estranged husband was not a man who liked to be blocked.
“Please, Pete. Don’t jam me up with Gullet. He’s already letting you and me go where we have no business going. We’ve got Cruikshank’s files and computer. We have a lot to lose. I don’t want to risk it. I have to help Emma clear these cases.”
“You’ve done what you can. Emma’s the coroner here. Gullet’s her battle.”
My gaze d
rifted into the darkness outside the screen. The surf was a silvery white line beyond the lumpy black cutouts I knew were dunes.
I made a decision.
“Emma’s sick.”
“How sick?”
I told him about the non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and about Emma’s recent relapse.
“I’m sorry, Tempe.”
Pete placed his hand on mine. We sat without talking. Outside, the ocean sounded a thundering ovation.
My thoughts were on Emma. Pete’s? Good question. I hadn’t a clue what he was pondering. Helene Flynn? GMC cash flow? Cruikshank’s code? Dessert?
Puzzled by the quiet, Boyd nudged my knee. I patted his head and got up to clear pizza debris. A change of topic seemed indicated.
“I found an eyelash when I screened the Dewees grave soil. It’s black. The hair in the grave was blond.”
“Aren’t everyone’s eyelashes black?”
“Not without mascara.”
“Think it’s from whoever buried the guy?”
“The students who dug him up both have light hair.”
“Locard’s exchange principle.” Pete beamed a “savant” smile.
“I’m impressed,” I said.
Pete had cited a concept well-known to criminalists. Locard stated that two objects coming into contact will each transfer particles, one to the other. A crook in a bank. A sniper on a tree branch. A murderer digging in sand. Every perp carries trace evidence from a scene and leaves some behind.
“You going to call this guy Winborne?” Pete asked.
I glanced at my watch. It was almost ten.
“Eventually. I may play around with Cruikshank’s files a little longer.”
“Why did the accountant cross the road?”
Pete was on an accountant roll. I just looked at him.
“Because the file said that’s what they did last year.”
I’d barely hit the couch when my eyes fell on Pete’s cap. My restless subconscious whispered again. Yo!
What? NBA? Hornets? Turquoise?
Teal!
Jimmie Ray Teal.
When had I read that article? The last morning of the field school. Less than a week.
Pete was moving through the house, battening, I assumed.