Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
EVERETT
Logan returning to school is the only dose of normalcy in this mess but it’s not enough to keep my thoughts from spiraling. As soon as I’m in my rig, I call Zach.
“Hey, I was just going to check in with you.” His son Curren chatters in the background, along with the hum of a laundry machine, which makes sense since he’s not on shift until ten today.
“It’s Shawna Farrell,” I say over the rain pattering on my windshield.
“What? Did you get a confession?”
I give him the summary of what Vivian told me while I cruise out of my neighborhood.
Zach whistles. “You think Shawna was fishing for intel in the grocery store?”
“That she showed up in the wine aisle with an empty cart is interesting, since Shawna doesn’t drink alcohol.” Something I mistakenly read as a sign of maturity.
“Huh.” Curren yells in the background, and I wait through a pause. “How would Shawna know Vivian and you were hanging out? ”
“I’m not sure. But she’s pretty resourceful.” Could I have given something away that day I picked up Logan? Like stars in my eyes after leaving the nurse’s office.
“And she has a history of being psycho,” Zach says.
I keep my suspicions about Shawna’s possible breach of school privacy laws to myself, for now.
“Let me run with this,” he says. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Thanks, Zach.”
When I get to my desk ten minutes later, my concentration is shit. I stare at the beige walls of my cubby. Though Zach has doubts, I’m 100% sure Shawna came to my house last night and spray-painted Vivian’s car. Whether it’s to get some sort of revenge or just to get my attention I don’t know, and I don’t care.
The bigger question is if Shawna also trashed Vivian’s trailer. With the independent and somewhat flexible schedule Shawna juggles between three schools, she could have disappeared in the middle of the day for a few hours.
I make a note to share this with Zach.
Unease pinches my gut, and it’s not the meager breakfast I managed to scarf down. I don’t like how I handled things with Vivian this morning. I was frustrated, and afraid the worries I’d set aside about Vivian had been justified after all.
If Shawna’s behind the break-in and the spray paint, it’s my fault. I brought this on.
Not some truth Vivian kept from me.
Fuck!
When will my past quit doing this to me? Messing with my judgement. Making me second guess myself.
I need to apologize to Vivian. But how can I do that without coming off like an asshole?
My desk phone buzzes. “Rumsey,” I answer.
It’s our gruff crime scene tech, Walker. “It’s your lucky day, deputy.”
“Oh?” I could certainly use some good news .
“Got a partial off that Taurus. One . The rest of the interior was wiped clean like I thought.”
I whip out my pocket notebook and flip to a fresh page. “Where’d you get the partial?”
“Outside edge of the gas cap.”
I lean back, digesting this. The driver wiped every surface but forgot that he’d pumped gas. Or he was in too much of a rush to clean up, and hoped we wouldn’t find it. It’s also possible the print came from a gas station attendant.
“Did you get a match?”
“That’s your second lucky break. Jordy Clarke. With an “e”. Age thirty-two. Last known address is Idaho Falls. You want it?”
“Email it to me,” I say while scribbling. “Any hits?”
“Yep. Two B and E’s. Both in California. One five years ago, the other seven years ago. He had a juvenile record but good luck getting at that.”
Juvenile records area sealed tight. Only a court order will allow access, which is extremely rare. “So, he got popped in California, but he’s now living in Idaho Falls? What’s this guy doing in Finn River?”
“That’s why they pay you the big bucks,” Walker says. “I’m releasing the Taurus. Can you notify the owner?”
“Yes.” I pull up the report from the Rigby PD with Woody McGowan’s contact info. “Anything yet from the break-in at The Meadows?”
“I’m afraid that’s all the lucky breaks I have for you today. The prints on the door are only hers. Same with the fridge. I got hair and fibers but again, Rolland’s holding out until I’ve exhausted other means, and I’m not even sure he’ll spring for a DNA analysis for a petty crime like this.”
He’s right, yet the thought of Vivian’s trailer break-in as a “petty crime” makes me wince. I run a hand through my hair. “Thanks.”
“I heard about the vandalism last night,” Walker says. “Zach’s bringing in prints later. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Jeez, Walker, I’m touched. ”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Walker and I wrap up our call. I sketch out a to-do list for my morning, then type “Jordy Clarke” into our CAD database. First, I open the image of Jordy’s current driver’s license. Brown hair, brown eyes. In his picture, there’s something about his face that sets me on edge. He looks hungry, like his cheekbones are a little too close to the skin. And his eyes are angry. Hard. He looks much older in his photo than thirty-two. Just as I suspected, thanks to the fleeting glance I got of him driving, he’s tall, well over six feet.
Where did he go that day I chased him to the boat ramp?
A bad feeling niggles my gut.
Jordy’s records list the name and address of his employer, a business called Restaurant Depot in Idaho Falls, where he’s been a forklift operator for the past four years.
When I call the number, so much sound comes through the speaker that I have to hold it away from my ear or risk rupturing an eardrum. “Restaurant Depot, this is Mick,” a man barks over the beeping and constant grinding of engines. Like a construction site.
“This is Deputy Rumsey from Finn River Sheriff’s Department. I’m calling about an employee of yours.”
He grunts. “Who?”
“Jordy Clarke. Is he in today?”
He muffles the phone to yell at someone. “Haven’t seen him,” he says to me.
“When was the last time he came in?”
“He works swing shift, so…”
“Could you check for me?”
He gives an exasperated huff. “What’s this about?”
“I just need to ask him some questions.”
“Hang on,” he says, followed by the clunk of the phone hitting some surface. The beeping and steady roar fills the silence while I wait.
I tuck the phone against my shoulder so I can start searching up the details of Jordy’s crimes .
Mick scoops up the phone. “He hasn’t worked in a couple of weeks.”
“Is that normal?”
“He’s not gonna have a job when he decides to come back, that’s for sure.”
So, he’s MIA. “Thank you.”
We end the call, and I catch the beginning of Mick yelling at someone else before the line goes silent.
So, Jordy Clarke, who’s been in Idaho Falls for at least four years, working as a warehouse forklift operator, steals a car from nearby a shopping mall in Rigby, then ends up in Finn River. The first time he lands on my radar was the stunt outside Glory Holes. Then four days later, he’s driving like a bat out of hell away from Finn River. Back to Rigby? To Montana?
When I pursue him, he abandons the stolen vehicle and vanishes.
Though there is no reason to believe Jordy is connected to the death of Kimberly Saxon, Big Pine is just up the road from Idaho Falls, a little over 100 miles on Highway 20.
Finn River is in the opposite direction, with no direct route.
My mind is buzzing with ideas, but nothing fits right.
I glance at the clock. I still need to call Woody McGowan about his Taurus before I leave to talk to the Lamberts, but I’ve got time to dig a little deeper.
Jordy’s most recent break-in five years ago occurred at a four-bedroom condo in Rancho Palos Verdes, near L.A. The surgeon living there had been out of town. He was apprehended on the scene before he could escape with a backpack of stolen items, including an expensive watch, some of the wife’s jewelry, electronics, and a baseball signed by the Dodgers’ Clayton Kershaw. Seven years ago, Jordy broke into a house when the owners—an elderly couple—were asleep. Jordy was in the middle of loading up the woman’s jewelry when the man woke up. The tussle ended badly for the older man, who spent several days in critical care. Though Jordy fled, the cops lifted prints. He plead guilty and served six months. The juvenile charge is obviously not available to me, but I’m imagining something like joyriding or petty theft.
I go back to his rap sheet. Why did he only serve six months for that first crime? And from the looks of it, he got off with barely a slap on the wrist for the second one.
Leaning back in my seat, I try to zoom out. It’s easy to get caught up in the investigative thrill that finding a fingerprint match can stir up. These B and E cases are in the past. They paint a picture of Jordy Clarke, but they don’t get me any closer to finding him.
Is he still in Finn River? Or maybe he’s long gone? He lost his access to transportation when I towed the Taurus away. At the very least, I can check in with Idaho Falls PD. If Jordy’s somehow made it home, they could intercept.
Zach comes in from the back door, a keen expression in his dark blue eyes and his shoulders wet from the rain. He nods towards the break room. I slip my notebook and pen back in my breast pocket and log out of my workstation, then follow, passing the handful of occupied cubbies. Troy is pecking away at his computer, and doesn’t look up. When I told him about the pendant last Friday, he was frustrated that we’d kept him in the dark, but he understands why he can’t get too close to the investigation due to his relationship with Marin.
Now it makes me feel like a hypocrite because haven’t I let those lines get blurry with Vivian?
When I step inside the alcove, Zach is loading up the coffee pot for a fresh brew.
“Your next-door neighbor saw a car that matches Shawna Farrell’s arrive around eight o’clock last night,” he says. “Parked on the street. Left a few minutes after.”
“You’ve been busy.” I pull down two mugs.
He grabs the milk from the fridge. “I made some calls from home.”
“You gonna bring her in?”
He cocks his head, his eyes keen. “Think she poses a danger? ”
I weigh his question. He’s asking if Shawna would go after Vivian. “Unlikely.”
“Okay. She’s at the elementary school today. I’ll wait until this afternoon, when she leaves for the day.”
“I’d like to know if she had any gaps in her day last Tuesday,” I say.
Zach crosses his arms. “Me too.”
“I’m interviewing that last neighbor at The Meadows this afternoon,” I say over the coffee burbling through the filter. “Maybe she’ll give us something.”
“Got an update from the federal lab on that pendant,” Zach says, leaning back against the counter.
“Anything useful?”
He huffs a slow sigh. “Michelle’s pendant is an identical match to the other two. Like they were bought together.”
The idea of our perp buying these pendants in a batch turns my stomach. How many did he buy? Does he think he’s clever, leaving this clue for us?
I swipe down my chin with my palm, trying to center my thoughts. Marin, Michelle, and Kimberly Saxon are now irrevocably linked. The same person took their lives and left us this little keepsake. “Anything we could use to trace it?”
He shakes his head. “It’s junk jewelry. Mass produced, probably in China.”
“We need their phones,” I say.
“I went back to Bitterroot on Friday to talk to Marin’s professors,” Zach says as the coffeemaker gives its final hiss.
“How’d that go?”
Zach pours us both a cup of coffee, then slides one my way. I take my time adding milk and stirring while Zach leans back against the counter again, cradling his cup.
“Her biology teacher barely remembers Marin as her student. No surprise there, with over ninety kids enrolled in her BIO 101 lecture. She doesn’t remember Marin hanging around with anyone except for Troy.”
“How does the killer target them if not from their classes somehow?” I toss my stir stick into the trash.
“Something I’ve been wondering,” Zach says, staring into his coffee. “All the vics have some sort of connection to science or health care, right? Does that mean our perp uses that as a filter, or is it because he operates in that world somehow?”
“Like a fellow student?”
Zach glances up, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Maybe, but wouldn’t that be kind of hard to be a student at four, five different institutions in such a short timeframe?”
That’s a solid point, though not impossible. “What if he’s not actually enrolled. He just attends the classes, all the while searching for his victim?”
“How would he do that with no one noticing? Some of those upper-level classes get pretty small,” Zach says, taking a sip of his coffee. “It wouldn’t take long before the teacher figured out that one of the students sitting in their class wasn’t paying for it.”
“A teacher, maybe?”
“Would it be difficult for a professor to move around like that?”
We’re spit balling, so I keep it rolling. “Maybe a guest lecturer?”
He nods. “Both would be easy to check.”
I make a mental note to look this up later. Most college staff directories have short bios with pictures. Not sure about guest lecturers, but a phone call to each department would likely give us the answer.
“Ballard thinks the perp might be in sales.” I picture the network of highways connecting western Montana to the Bay Area in California. “But what field of science or technology sales would connect all five vics?”
“Besides pharmaceuticals?”
The feds had declared this a dead end after they scoured hundreds of documents and employee records. Not just because there are so many of them, but getting employee records from all the companies requires a warrant, and when it comes to a carte blanche of a company’s employee records, it’s practically impossible to get for a fishing expedition like this one. I make a mental note to check in with Ballard about it.
“What about a blood donation van?” Zach asks.
I cringe. “Some creep targeting girls who donate blood? I mean, it’s plausible, but ugh.”
“I know. They keep pretty meticulous records, though, so it’d be worth checking.” He takes another sip of his coffee. “Okay, here’s another idea. Something all five vics have in common besides the science connection is they’re either in or have recently graduated from college. Do you know how much tuition costs these days? Nichole-Renée was in grad school and yeah, pharmacists make bank, but at the time she was killed, I’ll bet she had student loans up the wazoo.”
Marin was attending Bitterroot Community College. Maybe because Western or one of the other four-year colleges were too expensive?
“Meaning all five victims were broke,” I say.
Zach nods. “What if this guy draws his victims in with some kind of financial offer?”
I take out my notepad and jot this idea down. “So, you’re saying our perp could run an ad that would appeal to the kind of women he’s interested in. Maybe even something lucrative.”
“Shit,” Zach says, huffing at the ceiling. “When Sofie was in grad school, she ran a couple of studies for her research classes. It was all done through the department to keep both sides safe—but what if our perp did something like it, only everything about it was totally fake?”
A buzz fires through my core. This could be something. “How did Sofie advertise her study?”
“In the school newspaper. And I think on the Psych Department’s billboard.” He cocks an eyebrow. “I think there’s a tab for job openings on the university’s website. I can ask if she used it.”
“What if it’s an actual job opening? Something our perp knows would bring in the type of young woman who fits his M.O.?”
Zach gives a low whistle. “He could advertise in the school paper or online, and when they apply, he’d have their contact info and a good amount of their personal information.”
Could the killer be that brazen? “What if he interviews them, and chooses his vic that way? Would he strike then, or does he groom his victim, build some sort of secret relationship with them first?”
“Did any of the other victims get calls from a burner phone?” Zach asks.
“Michelle did. Not sure about the others. Ballard would know.”
Zach nods.
“I’m talking with Marin’s parents this morning,” I say.
“You want company?” He tops up his coffee.
“You up for it?”
“I laid awake last night worrying about Linnea,” he says with a heavy sigh. “She’s safe at Western right now, and she’s sick of me and her dad checking up on her, but I want to nail this guy.”
“All right. Let’s roll.”