Chapter 7
“Not like it how?” I demand. I’ve been here ten minutes, and I already hate how things are going.
“I don’t know. We’ll just have to wait till we get there.”
I take a couple of long deep breaths, the kind that are supposed to calm you but have never really worked for me.
We’re quiet for the next few minutes as Logan zigzags along the charmless streets of Rensselaer. We reach the highway, and as soon as he’s merged into traffic, he clears his throat and briefly glances over at me.
“There’s something else I need to talk to you about,” he says.
“Maya is hosting a thank-you dinner for us at the president’s house tomorrow night.
Nothing fancy, she assured me, and only about a dozen people, including a few English professors and the head of donor relations.
Of course, if you aren’t up for it, I’m sure she’d understand. ”
“You’re just mentioning this now, Logan?” I say, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of my voice. I’ve packed only one fancy dress, for the reception on Thursday. Beyond that, I don’t need him looking out for me, wondering if I can handle something.
“I didn’t know myself until late yesterday. She had a prior event on her schedule, but once she heard you were coming, she decided to cancel it so she could do this instead.”
The idea of being there has zero appeal—it’s going to be tough enough to be at the reception. But not attending would be rude, especially after Maya’s gone to the trouble. And if the cops reopen the investigation, we might need her support.
“I’d like to go.”
“I’ll let her office know . . . By the way, I haven’t breathed a word yet to Maya about what’s going on with the police. If and when there’s something more definitive, I’ll bring her up to speed.”
“Do you think it’s started to leak out?”
“Not yet, apparently, but Halligan said a reporter has been snooping around.”
“That’s not necessarily a bad thing, right?” I say. “If it’s out in the open, the police will probably be less tempted to sit on things.”
“Exactly.”
After flipping down the visor, I dig a tube of stick foundation from my purse along with blush and lipstick.
It’s not about glamming myself up for the cops but just looking pulled together.
What I always told myself in the past was that the more presentable you look in discussions with the authorities, the more seriously they take you.
I guess the jury is out on whether that did any good.
I’m just swiping on lipstick when I catch myself.
During our marriage I fixed my face in front of Logan countless times—using visor mirrors in a pinch and even restaurant cutlery on occasion—but it’s the kind of familiar behavior that’s ceased to be appropriate.
I’m not Logan’s wife, and I’m not even his friend.
I can’t make him understand that if I ignore boundaries myself.
With the makeup back in my purse, I stare out the window.
Based on my mental calculation, state police headquarters is a twenty-five-minute drive from here, and though I’ve never come at it from this direction, the terrain is vaguely familiar.
We’re off the highway now and on a regular road, passing clapboard houses, their yards still muddy from the winter; shabby bars; gas stations; and local businesses with garish signs in red, blue, and black.
Within seconds I realize my eyes are too heavy to keep open a second more, and I feel my head loll toward the window.
When I stir awake, I see we’re pulling into a large parking lot in front of a one-story brick building I don’t recognize.
“Wait,” I say, “where are we?”
“Oh right, you wouldn’t know. They built a new headquarters a few years ago, about a mile from the other one.”
Good, I think. I won’t have to sit in one of the same airless interview rooms I was trapped in before, forced to relive my past in the exact setting. Now, if only Cartersville and Carter College could be transformed into places unrecognizable to me.
We emerge from the car and cross the lot side by side, though I’m dragging a little and sense that Logan is itching to move faster.
The only person in the lobby when we enter is a middle-aged female receptionist. As we approach the glass window she’s sitting behind, she raises her head from some paperwork, trains her gaze at Logan, and offers a polite smile.
“Logan Chase and Bree Winter for Detective Halligan,” he says. “We’re a little early for our appointment, but hopefully he can see us as soon as possible.”
He’s all Logan Chase in Charge right now, more the Logan I remember than the subdued version who showed up at my door in the dark last week.
“Please have a seat,” the woman says, “and I’ll let him know you’re here.”
We do as she says, settling into two straight-backed chairs in the silent windowless room.
About five minutes later, the double doors in front of us swing open, and a man in a brown suit heads in our direction, his lace-up shoes squeaking a little on the artificial-tile floor.
It’s Halligan, obviously, but I’m surprised by how unfamiliar he looks to me.
I guess since Caputo was the lead detective originally, my attention was focused mostly on him back then, the only man who mattered in my mind.
“Logan, Bree, thanks for coming in,” Halligan says as we rise and step forward. He shakes my hand, then Logan’s.
Had he called us by our first names before? Perhaps toward the end of our experience with him.
“Thanks for being flexible about the meeting time,” Logan says. “Bree’s barely off the plane from South America, but like me, she’s very happy you can see us now.”
“Let’s get started, then.”
Halligan uses a fob to click open the doors he came through and leads us down a long corridor to a small, nondescript interview room.
He motions for us to sit on the side of the table nearest the door, across from a spot where there’s already a stuffed manila folder.
After asking whether we’d like water, which we both decline, he takes his seat.
Inside my purse are a small pad and pen, two things I tend to carry out of habit as an editor, and I briefly wonder if I should fish them out and take notes. But no, I can’t do that, can’t have the words that will surface today jostling around in my purse. I’ll just have to listen carefully.
There’s something I will do today, however, as well as during the days ahead, and that’s assert myself.
Eight years ago, I was so distraught and needy that I tended to go with the horrible flow, rarely challenging what we were told.
One of the therapists I later saw told me that though “fight, flight, and freeze” are the stress responses we hear the most about, there’s a fourth one called fawn.
It’s when you end up over-agreeing with those around you and/or trying to cope by being way too helpful or solicitous.
I was a fawner back then, but I have no intention of being one now.
“First let me start by saying how much I empathize with both of you,” Halligan says. “This is an upsetting turn of events for all of us.”
He smiles sympathetically. Though I think he’s heavier than he used to be, and the mustache might be new, he’s beginning to seem more familiar—the light-brown eyes, Roman nose, and faint acne scars along his cheeks.
He had a kind of hyper, eager-beaver manner back then, which I’d sensed reflected a desire to look good to his boss, Caputo, but he’s clearly gained confidence in the ensuing years and seems at home in his skin. Good. That’s what we need.
“We appreciate that,” Logan tells him. “And we’re eager to hear whatever you’ve learned.”
“It’s been a busy week and a half,” Halligan says, opening the folder while moving his gaze back and forth between us.
“I’ve spoken multiple times to investigators in both Pennsylvania and Ohio and also touched base with one of the detectives we dealt with in Plattsburgh.
And I’ve gone back over our own files as well. ”
Please, I think, just tell us.
“And?” Logan says as if reading my thoughts.
“Why don’t I lay out what I learned, and then we can discuss the possible implications. What you need to bear in mind is that we’re working with a lot more information now that there are two additional cases in the mix.”
There’s an ominous undertone to his words. More information. If it were more information in our favor, he’d probably be saying so upfront. I squeeze my hands into fists in my lap, urging myself again not to get ahead of things.
“Based on the directions Ruck gave,” Halligan continues, “the police in both states had little trouble finding the remains of the two college students he killed. The body of Jessica Lombardo, the Ohio girl, was buried under leaves and dirt in some thick woods about two miles from the highway, and the girl from Pennsylvania, Rachel Mullen, was also found in a wooded area.”
He pauses and plucks two pieces of paper from his folder and then, after turning them around, slides them across the table toward us.
They are photocopies of the “Missing” poster created for each girl a decade ago.
I wince at the sight of the photos on them.
Jessica is brunette and Rachel, very blond.
They’re both pretty and friendly looking and seem full of life. Ready to take on the world.
“They were each killed in the same way,” Halligan continues. “Struck on the back of the head with some kind of blunt object and then strangled.”
“Jesus,” Logan exclaims. “They were able to tell that after all this time?”
“Yes, with the help of both a pathologist and a forensic anthropologist, who examined the skeletal remains. In each instance there was a small linear fracture in the skull from the blow, as well as a fracture of the hyoid bone in the throat, caused by strangulation. Since the skull fracture in each case was not catastrophic and probably didn’t result in the crushing of any brain tissue, it indicates that the victims must have been struck first, probably to incapacitate them, and strangled to death afterward. ”
I get a taste of bile in my throat and wish I’d accepted the offer for water.
“So, Ruck had the same MO right from the start,” I say.
Halligan nods. “Yes, it appears that way.”
“Can they tell what type of ligature was used?” Logan asks. “I mean, was it a dog leash?”
When I glance his way, I see that his face has gone slightly gray. Underneath that confident demeanor, he must be as distressed as I am to be covering this ground again.
Halligan shakes his head. “Since there was no tissue remaining in either case, it was impossible to make that determination.”
“But there’s no reason to think it wasn’t a leash?” Logan says.
“That’s right.”
“So even without the leash marks, there are strong consistencies among all five crimes,” he says.
Crinkles form in Halligan’s forehead. “Yes and no. There are a couple of similarities among the two newer cases and the two in Plattsburgh that aren’t there in Melanie’s case.”
Okay, here it comes, just what I was dreading. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Logan shift anxiously in his seat.
“The first has to do with the location of the bodies,” Halligan continues.
“What we’ve learned in law enforcement over many years is that some serial sexual murderers take pains to conceal the bodies of their victims in a so-called organized way, and others simply leave them at the crime scene, and they stick with one approach or another, rarely varying it.
As I’m sure you recall, Sailor Abbott’s body was discovered in a wooded area a few days after she disappeared.
And Ruck was apprehended hiding Amanda Kline’s body in woods north of Plattsburgh.
But there appeared to be no attempt to dispose of Melanie’s body. ”
“That never bothered you eight years ago,” I say and quickly warn myself to tone it down. The goal here is to be less fawning, not hostile.
“And it wasn’t a concern for good reason,” Logan says. “It always seemed that Ruck got spooked somehow that night and didn’t finish what he set out to do.”
“Yes, that’s still a possible scenario,” Halligan says. “But I want us to factor it in now that we have something else to consider.”
“Well, let’s hear it,” Logan says. He’s letting his agitation show, but I can hardly blame him.
Halligan turns over the page he’s been glancing at and picks up the sheet underneath it. “As I mentioned a minute ago, forensic anthropologists were brought in to examine the remains in both Ohio and Pennsylvania. In the end, a forensic odontologist was also consulted.”
“An odontologist?” Logan says.
“It’s a specially trained dentist that police sometimes rely on during an investigation.
They can help identify a deceased person from dental work when the body is badly decomposed, and in certain cases, they’re asked to examine bite marks on victims. What they found in each of these two new cases is a bite mark on the victims’ right index finger. ”
The bile is back, nearly making me gag.
“A bite mark?” Logan exclaims. “They think the fucking bastard bit them?”
“Yes. It might have been in a frenzy, but since it was on the same finger in each case, we’re thinking it could be some kind of signature. As we touched on in the past, serial murderers often leave those.”
“But couldn’t those marks have been made by animals?” I say. “The bodies were in the woods for years.”
“From what the odontologist concluded, the marks were from human teeth,” Halligan explains. “So, as soon as I heard this, I requested a fresh look at the Plattsburgh autopsy report and photos. And lo and behold, there were similar bite marks.”
We stare at him, now waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Then we took another look at Melanie’s file,” he adds. “There were no bite wounds on any of her fingers.”