Chapter 15 #2
“We have web specialists trying to pin that down, but the person’s got a level of tech smarts. VPN encrypting can make it difficult to trace.”
“Nothing at all?”
“It’s taken some time, but we’ve been able to trace the first three posts to VPNs in public spaces: the first two to public libraries nowhere near the victims in Snohomish and Santa Monica, and the last from a computer at a Staples in Kennewick, Washington,” Alderson says.
“But that last victim—the third—whoever he was, was left alone. We believe we have a good lead on who he might be and are in the process of talking to him.”
Questions run through my mind like a ticker tape, but I let Alderson continue.
“We assume that they post in a public place from a random computer that can’t be traced and drive or fly somewhere else to get the victims, to throw us off.
We’ve got people scouring all security footage of libraries in the vicinity of where the victims lived and even much larger parameters.
But they’re smart enough to pick libraries that don’t have cameras directly on their entrances, so we’ve had to search nearby streets and blocks. It’s tedious.”
“Anything at all?”
“Nothing solid,” Alderson says.
I can’t tell if their tight lips are standard protocol or if they really have nothing to go on. “Any patterns? Because it would be good to know if I fit into one.”
“We’re working on it.” Greene’s eyes stay fixed on me. “We’re expanding our searches of the victims’ phone and computer records.” She circles back: “It would be helpful to get a look at yours, too.”
I ignore her.
“We’re still checking into all of it,” Alderson reiterates, as if every frank thing Greene says needs massaging over by his smooth voice.
Maybe people perceive me the same way—that I’m too blunt.
“You’ve seen them, right?” he asks. “They both had decent jobs, but nothing especially high powered or uber important. They weren’t in politics or law enforcement, weren’t big oil, Wall Street, or pharma tycoons.
One was a high school football coach and the other worked for Santa Monica Community College. ”
“In education.”
“Yes. But not you.”
“And the earrings? I mean, they’re not that uncommon.”
“They’re the first real clue we’ve gotten,” he says.
“We’re trying to track down all the purchasers of the other ones sold and sending our field officers to check them out, but it’s tedious.
Not all gift shops keep detailed records, and even when they do, they’re slow at going through everything and getting the information to us.
And if people pay cash, there’s no trace.
But we’ll let you know if we come across anyone who’s purchased earrings like these who resembles the sketch as much as you do. ”
I swallow, my throat tight. As much as you do. “So, why the earrings, do you think? Why get so specific now? Do they want to suddenly be known, to give you more clues?”
“Eventually, they all want recognition.”
“But surely the killer must know that the victim would contact authorities and that you’d try to catch him by keeping an eye on the bait.”
On me.
“Possibly,” Greene says. “Sometimes it’s a game, and he’s upping the stakes.”
Like the Zodiac Killer, sending messages with ciphers to the Bay Area newspapers, mocking the detectives working his case. Upping the stakes. “But why so specific?”
“We don’t know yet,” Alderson says. “We’re looking into it all. Might not even be the same person.”
“I’ve thought of that. Someone hopping on the bandwagon. A copycat seizing an opportunity to kill me under the guise of this psycho.” I think of Ridgeway.
“It’s a thought,” he says. “Or to frighten you. Can you think of anything you’ve worked on, as either a cop or a PI, that has poked a bear?”
“Plenty,” I say. I’ll tell them about Robbie Ridgeway, but not this moment. I want to hear more about what they’ve found. “But nothing enough to warrant this kind of a response. What do your analysts think about the drawings? Same sketcher or not?”
“We’re working on that. As of now, we don’t have evidence to suggest it one way or the other.
Each artist has a signature style, so we’re checking into that, if only to rule out copycats or pranksters.
Either way, though, we do need you to think of anyone who might have any reason to harm or frighten you.
We also need to know if you know anyone in your circles who knows how to draw, someone who’s good with art. ”
I sigh heavily when I think of people who might dislike me. Where would I begin?
The guys on the squad? So many were complete jerks to me, but murder? I can’t fathom that. Besides, the alpha males got what they wanted: my departure. All threats that a woman might get a promotion ahead of themselves have been vanquished. Stand down, boys.
There have been a few people I’ve upset by some of the things I’ve exposed through my PI work, and sometimes through the DNA testing and research I ordered up through Jess’s company.
I’ve informed an adult child that her father isn’t her blood parent.
I’ve exposed that a man has two entirely different families and his wife simply thought he traveled a lot.
Discoveries that have surely stoked anger—betrayed realities, emotional foundations crumbling, inheritances affected.
Right up to my current Clarissa Haynes case, where she’d been working on exposing the potential pollution of a rare fen on Ridgeway’s property and thwarting the sale of the land to Volanex.
There’s also the fact that Ridgeway is an artist. I recall our interaction when I first entered his home and noted the prints of the naked women on his walls. I relay all this to Alderson and Greene.
Both of them make notes.
I clear my throat before I ask, “I’d love it if you could use your special FBI powers to dig a little deeper into Clarissa Haynes’s death.
” A part of me knows it’s a big stretch to ask this of them.
The two cases might have zero to do with one another, but it can’t hurt.
And I can’t shake the idea that the sketch, if it is of me, came out two weeks after I pissed Ridgeway off.
“Deeper how?”
“Pull the forensics reports from the Teton County Sheriff’s Department. See what they have so far. Maybe that will give us some direction. Maybe we’ll see some connection.”
Alderson pushes out his lower lip and nods, like he’s open to the idea. Greene’s face stays set in stone, unconvinced.
“You said yourself”—I turn to Alderson—“the person who put the sketch out might not even be the same person. They might be a copycat. Don’t you think it would be good to know as much as we can about Ridgeway and the murder of Clarissa Haynes since that’s what I’ve been most involved with?”
“You’re making some pretty big leaps here,” Greene says. “You don’t even know if she was murdered for sure.”
“She was,” I say. “And you should check it out if you want to be thorough.”
The two glance at each other. I can see I’ve struck a chord. They don’t want to make any mistakes. Not with a case like the Confession Artist snaring the entire nation’s attention.
“We’ll look into it,” Alderson says. “What about other artists?”
I shake my head. A few, I think. Including my sister. But could any of them draw something so specific, so well rendered? I doubt it.
But the big lie still clings to me like someone’s tightly rolled me up in a filthy film of plastic wrap. My fib to Ewing boomerangs back to me. I do have something I should feel ashamed of. It just isn’t what he thinks it is. It has nothing to do with “causing trouble” for Hartley.
The worst thing, next to my guilt over dragging Sophie camping, is how I let my rage get the best of me at Coleman’s place with the OIS investigator.
But there’s no way I’m exposing that.