Chapter 36
I tell Jess to stay where she is while I let the agents in.
No introductions are necessary because Greene and Alderson have already questioned her extensively, asked her to turn over some samples of her artwork, and had their experts analyze it.
No one has cleared her yet, and while I realize they need to be thorough, it’s infuriating to see resources wasted that could be focused elsewhere.
When I give Greene the name of one of the guys I know from the county sheriff’s office who’s good at image analysis, she assures me they have their own guy.
“Well, in case you need someone local.”
They head over to speak with Mr. Johnston across the street and in no time send the video attachment to their own tech, probably someone in Salt Lake City at their field office.
When they come back in, they ask Jess all the same questions I have, tell us that a tech from the Flathead County CSI unit will be by any minute to dust both of our cars for prints and collect samples of the kind of marker that was used. Then Alderson asks me to step outside.
“This vandalism stuff feels personal,” I say before he even tells me why he’s brought me outside alone.
“Yeah, well, that’s a given. We know that it’s not random.”
“No, I mean, it feels even more personal than that. It doesn’t seem like the Confession Artist’s MO. Was there any sign of him leaving messages or anything like that for the others?”
“No, but that doesn’t mean he’s not suddenly changing up the game, adding to it, like with the earrings.
It’s a mistake to assume they’ll slavishly follow their scripts.
And they could’ve left them for the others and we simply don’t know about it.
They can’t exactly tell us now, can they?
” His brow furrows and he adds, as if answering himself, “But friends and family members of the victims didn’t report anything to suggest he did, so it seems unlikely. ”
“Exactly,” I say. “So why this time? Why bring Jess into it, too? It’s weird. Plus, the grammar—that your/you’re business. Would he get that wrong? None of the other messages online have any mistakes.”
Alderson smiles. “Everybody slips up, don’t they? I mean, it was on a windshield.”
“It feels off.”
Louise Harms is out front, holding Malley and watching us with concern.
“Do me a favor,” I say. “Give that woman over there a serious stare.”
Alderson does so without hesitation, and I can see the whites of Louise’s widened eyes. He turns back to me. “What was that about?”
“Just punctuating my threat to her that she shouldn’t call any reporters.”
“Gotcha,” he says. “Pattern or not,” he continues. “And as frightening as it is for your sister, this narrows things down. We’re going to need a crossover list of all the people that you and Jess have in common, have worked with, have socialized with. Anyone remotely who overlaps your two orbits.”
“That’s a lot of people, since she’s my sister. But yeah, I agree. It narrows things considerably. One good place to focus right off the bat: She’s made a number of referrals to me, and I have asked for her company’s help on some of my jobs when I’ve needed to track lineage.”
“Okay, well, we’ll need that immediately. But in the meantime,” Alderson says, “I have something I need to tell you.”
Hell. I don’t need another jolt of bad news.
“We questioned Wallace Scott extensively this morning,” he says.
“We released him, but we’re not convinced he’s clear.
He was alone, sightseeing and eating dinner out in both Seattle and LA on the nights the victims were killed.
He’s provided receipts for the restaurants where he ate, but the time stamp would have allowed plenty of downtime to find the victims. Plus the receipts were a little too handy, if you catch my drift. ”
“But have you found one single connection between Wallace and either Askens or Loman?”
“That doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”
“Come on, Alderson.” I sigh. “You guys can do better than that.”
He doesn’t answer.
I want to argue. Say, Maybe there’s some coincidental stuff going on here, but surely you’re not going to find evidence that he has a connection at all to the victims. But suddenly I’m uncertain. I feel like my entire foundation is crumbling beneath me.
“Maybe we won’t,” he allows. “But we’re not done digging. And you should know that he can’t provide proof of his whereabouts when they were killed.”
“What do you mean? What does he say he was doing?”
“Wandering around the cities. Taking in the sights. But he can’t even provide a coffee shop or bar receipt for the time frames we’re interested in.”
“I know for a fact that Wallace loves to walk. A lot. What about intersection cameras?”
“You trust him that much?”
I think about him showing up last night and again this morning at Jess’s house, no less. He didn’t mention getting questioned, but I didn’t give him a chance to. “I don’t have any reason not to.”
“What about his sister? You said yourself that you wish you wouldn’t have talked Sophie into going camping. Maybe he blames you.”
I think of the times when I’ve sensed anger from Wallace over Sophie, and how he’s kept it in check.
I recall the night at the banquet when he was so furious at me.
You act like you’ve erased her from your mind, he’d said, resentment smoldering in his eyes.
And last night, the downright fury in his glare.
The fuck you, Crosbie, which I’m sure is what he really whispered.
But still, what in the world would Wallace have to do with some coach from Snohomish, Washington, and a counselor from Santa Monica Community College?
The same worm of doubt I had last night wiggles in even deeper. I never kept all that close track of who he saw or what he did when he traveled. The thought that there are so many things I don’t know or understand about someone I’ve been so intimate with suddenly terrifies me.
“If there’s a connection,” Alderson adds, “we’ll find it. Maybe they’ve been to his concerts. Maybe they’ve been to a bar near one of his performance venues.”
“Maybe,” I say weakly.
He pivots back to Jess’s house, and I do the same.
“The video,” I say, like I’m grasping for hope. I desperately do not want to think of Wallace in this light, but I can’t deny that the thought of him harboring so much anger—even more anger than what I’m capable of—and in such a controlled fashion, gets under my skin and lodges there.
I point over to Art and Louise’s. “Someone was here last night. An actual person, targeting my sister. And I can, at the very least, tell you that Wallace does not have a tattoo on his arm.”
“I hear you, but we’re still going to take him into the county building for additional questioning.”
I think of Wallace getting taken into the cold room I used countless times.
I know every crack in the walls. I picture the departmental rumor mill flying into gear once it gets around that Greene and Alderson have brought him in, because it will.
From my experience, when the FBI used the county’s space for interrogation in Kalispell, it wasn’t uncommon for any of us on the force who wanted to pop into the observation room to view what was going on.
I cringe at the thought of Ewing watching my ex-boyfriend. “Don’t you think that’s overkill?”
“You know as well as we do that an interview goes much better at the station.”
“Only when you want to add pressure,” I say.
“Your cop skills remain intact.” Alderson dips his head.