Chapter Three
At ten minutes to noon on Monday, Sean walked into the Dare County Sheriff’s Department in Manteo wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a gray sports coat that concealed the weapon holstered at his hip.
He hadn’t expected to work for at least a few more weeks, so most of his clothes—including his suits—remained locked in the storage unit he’d rented while waiting for his apartment renovations to be finished.
If he officially joined the investigation, he’d need to retrieve a few things.
At the front desk, he held up his credentials to the deputy behind the bulletproof glass. The man informed him that Sheriff Griffin was already waiting and slid a visitor badge through the slot beneath the window before reaching over and pressing a button mounted on the wall beside him.
A buzz sounded through the lobby, and the deputy motioned toward a wood-and-glass security door a few feet away that had unlocked electronically.
As the door closed behind him, Sean made his way down the hallway, passing the detective bureau midway on the left.
The room buzzed with activity. Detectives sat behind cluttered desks reviewing reports or talking on the phone while three others occupied a conference table in the center of the bullpen, eating deli sandwiches and discussing a case between bites.
Different building. Different faces. Same chaos.
He continued to the next office on the right. Sheriff Matthew C. Griffin was stenciled across the tinted glass outer door. Beyond it, the secretary’s desk sat empty. Sean crossed the small reception area and knocked on the sheriff’s office door.
“Come in.”
Sean opened the door, stepped inside, and found Matt behind a large oak desk buried beneath files, paperwork, and a desktop computer.
The sheriff appeared ragged. Dark circles shadowed his eyes beneath the weight of exhaustion, and despite the fresh navy uniform stretched across his broad shoulders, sleep deprivation showed plainly on his face.
The office itself was spacious and comfortable.
Two upholstered guest chairs sat across from the desk, while a conference table, surrounded by eight straight-backed chairs, occupied the far side of the room.
Windows along one wall overlooked a grassy area beside the department.
Three tall bookcases lined the opposite wall, crammed with law enforcement manuals, plaques, trophies, and framed photos of the sheriff with several deputies, local officials, and family members.
A flat-screen television mounted over a credenza near the door completed the setup.
“Welcome to my nightmare,” Matt said with a tired grin.
Sean remained standing in front of the desk. “Didn’t get much sleep, huh?”
A smothered yawn and a weary shake of his head was the man’s response.
“Yeah, me neither.”
Matt pushed to his feet and stretched his back.
“I talked to your boss about an hour ago. He said if you’re willing to take the case, he’s all for it.
Apparently, they’re short-staffed right now, so he’s happy to have the help.
He also said to call if we need additional manpower, but for now, you’re it. ”
He grabbed a navy windbreaker from a coat rack in the corner and continued, “I’m putting together a task force and already contacted SBI. They’re sending two special agents for a two o’clock meeting. Lynch will take over the lead when he gets back tomorrow morning.”
Sean had already heard most of that from his SAC, who’d called shortly after speaking with Griffin. It didn’t surprise him that SBI was stepping in. Serial killer cases usually got the state bureau involved fast.
“Okay. Where do you want to start? Reports or the autopsy?”
“The morgue.” Griffin slipped into the jacket. “Pete’s holding off until we get there. He’s got a full schedule today and wasn’t thrilled about waiting.”
“Lead the way.”
Twenty minutes later, Sean and Matt signed into the county morgue located a few miles from the sheriff’s department. Matt pulled a small container of medicated vapor rub from his pocket, dabbed some beneath his nose, and offered it to Sean.
It was an old trick used by plenty of experienced cops to mask the stench of death. Unfortunately, depending on the condition of the body, sometimes nothing helped.
Sean had never actually gotten sick during an autopsy, though earlier in his career, he’d come close a few times.
However, he’d also seen plenty of agents and officers lose their lunch during a post mortem—including the ones convinced they were too tough for that sort of thing.
A morgue had a way of humbling people fast.
A middle-aged receptionist informed them that Dr. Hansen was in Autopsy Suite 3.
By the time they entered the cold, sterile examination room, Pete had already begun. He spoke into a recorder while conducting a visual inspection of the victim’s body. After switching the recorder off, he glanced up with narrowed eyes.
“You’re late. X-rays, photographs, and external evidence collection are already finished.”
He motioned toward the woman assisting him. “Tess Bingham, this is Sean Malone. And you already know the sheriff.”
Tess smiled at both men before securing a mask with a clear plastic shield over her face to protect against possible splatter.
Hansen eyed Sean and Matt. “We’re about ready to begin the internal exam. Any questions?”
Neither lawman had put on protective coverings, so they remained several feet from the table. Sean gestured toward the carved lettering across the victim’s torso.
“Any idea what he’s using to do that?”
“I’m leaning toward a sharp utility blade. Something like a Leatherman or Swiss Army knife. The cuts are too controlled for anything jagged but not precise enough for a scalpel.”
Hansen lifted his brows in silent question. When Sean shook his head, the coroner switched the recorder back on and pulled on his protective mask.
Picking up a scalpel from the nearby tray, Hansen began the autopsy.
Sean and Matt remained expressionless through the procedure. Years in law enforcement had exposed both men to more autopsies than either cared to remember, but familiarity never made them pleasant.
The worst part came when Tess powered up the bone saw.
The harsh grinding noise scraped across Sean’s nerves every time he heard it.
He’d always thought it was worse than a dentist’s drill, and no matter how many autopsies he attended, the sound never got easier to tolerate.
More than once, he found himself focusing on the tiled floor instead of the table.
By the time the examination ended, the findings confirmed what they’d already suspected—and added another disturbing detail.
“Cause of death is ligature strangulation,” Hansen said while removing his gloves.
“Unlike the first two victims, this time the killer appears to have stopped her breathing and heart more than once, performed CPR to revive her, then strangled her one final time. The rib and sternum fractures are consistent with resuscitation efforts.”
Sean felt his jaw harden.
The coroner stripped off his mask and tossed it aside.
“He’s evolving. Becoming more controlled.
More methodical.” His expression darkened.
“As you both know, that’s common with serial offenders.
The longer they continue without getting caught, the more confident they become.
This one enjoys what he does to these poor women, and now he wants their torture to last.”
Matt muttered under his breath. “Bastard.”
Sean glanced at the body again. “Can you tell how many times he revived her?”
“My estimate would be three or four.” Hansen removed his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Some of the ligature markings overlap, making it difficult to be exact, but I’d say no more than five.”
He motioned toward the victim’s neck. “Like the previous two victims, there’s no trace evidence showing exactly what he used, but my guess is a scarf or some other soft fabric.
A few of the marks appear consistent with creases in the material.
But what he used on her wrists and ankles appears to have been a coarse rope or cord. ”
His expression darkened. “Her stomach was empty, but the irritation in the esophagus indicates she vomited at some point. I can’t determine whether that happened before or during the assault.”
“Toxicology on everything else will take several days. But...” Crossing to a nearby computer, Hansen clicked through several screens. “Her blood alcohol level just came back—point-three-oh.”
“Jeez.” Sean stared at the woman on the table. “That’s almost four times the legal driving limit. She was hammered.”
Matt shook his head. “Maybe she lost consciousness through most of it.”
“Oh, one more thing,” Hansen added. “We recovered skin cells from beneath two of her fingernails. Looks like she managed to scratch him.”
Sean’s attention snapped back to the coroner. “Seriously?”
“Yes. I sent the samples upstairs to the lab just before you arrived.”
After thanking Hansen for waiting on them, Matt and Sean took the elevator two floors up to the criminal investigation lab, where technicians examined the physical evidence collected from the scene and victim.
A man in a white lab coat stood just inside the door reviewing a file when they walked in. His face brightened at the sight of the sheriff.
“Oh, good. I was about to call you.”
After Matt introduced Sean to Hank Cunningham, the head of the lab, he got right to the point. “You got something for us?”
“Yeah.” Cunningham handed over a printed report. “We managed to pull a print off the penny this time. Ran it through AFIS and got a hit.”
Matt blinked in surprise. “You’re kidding. Please tell me that it’s not tied to some old unsolved case with no name attached.”
“Nope. We actually caught a break.”
Sean stepped closer and read over the sheriff’s shoulder.
“Stuart Crowell. Twenty-five years old. Petty larceny and burglary.” His gaze moved farther down the report. “Did two years in Virginia state prison. No parole violations and hasn’t missed a meeting with his probation officer since being released six months ago.”
“Doesn’t exactly scream serial killer,” Matt muttered.
“I agree, but we still have to check him out.”
Experience told him the lead probably wouldn’t amount to much. Cases like this were never solved that easily. Still, they had no choice but to follow it.
Sean shifted his attention to the evidence spread across the nearby workstations. “Anything else? Did you recover her clothes?”
“No.”
Matt lowered the report. “Same as the first two victims. We never found their clothing either.” His expression darkened. “He’s either dumping them somewhere else or keeping them as trophies. And we still haven’t located the actual kill sites. None of the victims died where the bodies were left.”
“Did you get anything from the victim’s fingerprints?” Sean asked.
Cunningham shook his head. “Nothing in AFIS or any other government database. She’s never been fingerprinted.”
Matt blew out a frustrated breath. “And she doesn’t fit any missing person reports yet, so she’s still Jane Doe. Wonderful.”
“We’re still processing trace evidence from the body and scene, including the fingernail scrapings, but nothing else stands out so far. Other than the penny and the carving, anyway. I’ll call if we find something.”
“How long until we get the DNA results from the scrapings?” Sean asked.
“I already sent a sample to the state lab and requested priority processing, but it’ll still take weeks.” The lab tech lifted a hand when Matt’s expression darkened. “And yes, before you ask, that’s the fastest they can do it.”
The sheriff didn’t look pleased, but he let it go.
“Did you keep backup samples?” Sean asked.
“Always.” The other man nodded. “Just in case something gets lost.”
“If you send a sample to the FBI lab, we may be able to move it faster.” He pulled out a business card and wrote his cell number on the back before giving it to him. “I’ll have my SAC make some calls and put a rush on it.”
“That’d help. I’ll get the paperwork together and overnight everything before I leave tonight.”
“What’s the direct number here?” he asked. “Once I get a contact name at the FBI lab, I’ll call you so the samples go straight to the right person instead of disappearing into a backlog.”
The man grabbed a nearby notepad, scribbled down the lab number and extension, and handed it over.
Sean had followed Matt halfway to the door when a thought stopped him. “What year was the penny?”
Cunningham’s brows lifted in surprise before he raised his voice toward a younger tech across the room and repeated the question.
“1993,” came the response. “Same as the other two.”
Matt studied Sean. “What’re you thinking?”
“I’m not sure yet.” He frowned. “Were pennies from the other victims in the same condition?”
“Yes,” Cunnigham replied.
Sean rolled the information around in his head for a moment. “It’s strange they’re all from the same year and still look pretty clean considering their age. They’ve been in circulation for more than thirty years. Maybe the 1993 means something to the killer.”
Evidently following the same line of thinking, Cunningham nodded. “I’ll have my techs run tests to see if they were cleaned with anything, but I’ve got a jar of loose change at home with coins older than that still looking shiny. Depends on whose grubby hands they passed through.”
After thanking the techs, the two lawmen headed out.
As they crossed the parking lot, Matt pulled out his cell phone and called dispatch. After putting out an APB on Stuart Crowell for questioning, he listened for a moment before pausing beside the sheriff’s SUV.
“Okay. Tell them we’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He disconnected the call, a grin spreading across his face. “Well, looks like I got lucky.”
“How’s that?” Sean asked.
“Not only do I have Sean Malone, famous FBI agent, helping me out, but SBI sent one of North Carolina’s finest special agents too.” Matt pointed at him. “Your brother Brian.”
For the first time all day, Sean laughed. “The Malone brothers ride again. Yee-haw.”