Chapter Thirty-Five #2
“So, that’s key. That likely freaked this UNSUB out,” Sam said. “Next time around, what does he do? He picks a victim he thinks no one is going to miss, or at least not file a formal police report right away. Someone on the fringes.”
“Two of the victims have been positively identified as sex workers,” Leanne said. “The others, we don’t know. But based on the fact that they don’t match up with missing person reports, we can infer these women were people on the margins of the community, who tend to avoid interfacing with police.”
She thought about Ana Ortiz, who had mysteriously disappeared last summer, according to the vice detective. Girls like that aren’t the kind of cases you hear about on the news.
“Could be undocumented migrants, or runaways, or drug addicts,” Sam said. “Vulnerable groups that don’t want to mix with authorities for whatever reason.”
“You’re saying he’s choosing his victims that way.”
“Right,” Sam replied. “I’m saying he saw what happened with Hannah—how all hell rained down, and someone was arrested and tried and went to prison—and he knew he needed to adapt his method, because he wouldn’t get that lucky twice.”
“All right.” Leanne reread her notes so far. “What else about him?”
“Besides being smart, he’s detail oriented and meticulous.
He comes prepared. I think he uses a murder kit.
He’s got the duct tape, the scissors, and the pistol or whatever blunt object he uses to beat them—those are all part of the tool kit he brings with him.
It might have condoms, too, so he doesn’t leave DNA behind. He’s too smart for that.”
“So, an intelligent and organized killer.” Leanne took a deep breath. “Anything else? Anything physical?”
Sam nodded. “Well, based on the size thirteen shoe, he’s likely taller than average.
And he’s strong enough to maneuver his victims’ bodies around, dragging them and lifting them in and out of a vehicle.
Also, most importantly, the left-handed thing.
Only ten percent of people are left-handed, so that is potentially a huge factor for you. ”
“It’s also a factor in exonerating Sean Moriarty,” Leanne told her. “Sean’s right-handed. I checked.”
“I didn’t see anything in the file.”
“I ran into him at a bar the other night. I tossed something at him, and his reflex was to catch it with his right hand.”
Sam’s eyebrows tipped up. “You seriously did that?”
“I needed to know.”
“Okay, then. I’ll add that to the rest. And the last piece of the profile? I believe this guy’s local.”
“You think he’s from around here? Or that he lives here?”
“Both,” Sam said. “It goes back to the locations where he’s disposing of his victims, starting sixteen years ago with Hannah Rawls.
That abandoned well where he dumped her?
That’s on private property. It’s someone’s ranch, and I saw the crime scene photos—the area is near the highway, yes, but it’s surrounded by brush.
A search dog discovered it, but otherwise it might have remained hidden for years.
Anyone who knew that old well was there and was able to find it within hours of Hannah’s death, that person is familiar with this area in more than just a casual way. ”
“And you think he lives here?” Leanne asked.
Sam nodded. “Absolutely.”
“That’s what I think, too.”
“He’s picking up victims at population hubs—truck stops, gas stations, towns like Fort Stockton and El Paso that are bigger than Madrone, where it’s much easier to go unnoticed and blend in. Then he’s carrying out his crimes and depositing the victims on the highway, on his way home.”
Leanne paused, letting Sam’s words sink in. The feeling of dread that had been lurking inside her since that very first morning by the railroad tracks was back now, stronger than ever. This predator was local.
Which meant he was someone she knew.
“You believe he still lives here,” Leanne stated.
“Yes.” Sam paused. “Don’t you?”
“I’ve thought that from the beginning,” Leanne said. “I think he lives and works in Chisos County. I think he knows the area. I think it’s become his hunting ground.”
· · ·
Leanne felt numb as she left the coffee shop.
He was local.
He’d been killing for years, without attention or consequence, right in her backyard.
And he was still doing it.
Again, she thought of the missing woman from Fort Stockton.
Sandra had sent over what little she had on her from when she’d been trying to recruit her for CI work last summer.
Leanne now had a mug shot and fingerprints, but neither would be much help if all that was left of her was skeletonized bones.
She slid behind the wheel of her pickup and stared through the windshield as a combination of guilt and anger roiled inside her.
A murderer was at large and had been for sixteen years.
And her father was partially responsible because he had looked the other way.
At least six women dead and one man’s youth forfeited due to the actions and inaction of people Leanne had looked up to all her life.
The anger was like a hot glob of acid in her throat.
Her dad was part of this, part of the unforgivable act that would have a devastating effect for decades to come.
It would destroy people’s trust in the very cause that he’d devoted his life to, the cause she’d committed her life to. That was his legacy now.
Her phone chimed, snapping her from her daze. She dug it from her pocket. Ben. She stared down at the screen, deciding whether to answer.
Look out for your brother. Her father’s words came back, like they always did when she had this debate with herself. Ben’s crap was the last thing she wanted to deal with at this moment. But it might be an emergency.
She picked up.
“Where are you? I’ve been calling for days,” she said.
“I had my ringer off. What’s up?”
His blissful nonchalance irked her.
“Did you listen to my messages?”
“What about them?”
That was a no, then.
She took a deep breath, blocking out her irritation. “I need to talk to you. It’s important. Are you at home?”
“I’m in Austin.”
“What? Why?”
“I sold some of Dad’s LPs to a private collector here.”
“You…what? What the hell, Ben?”
“Relax. You’ll get a cut of the money.”
“I don’t want a cut of the money. I can’t believe—”
“You should be thanking me,” he said. “This is a good buyer—a music producer, and he’s willing to pay top dollar. I found him through Roland.”
“Roland Rivas, the drug dealer?”
“He’s not a drug dealer, he’s a musician. You don’t know what you’re talking about as usual—”
“You know what? Just stop, okay? I don’t want to hear it,” she said. “I need you to listen to me.”
Silence.
“Ben? Are you there?”
“Yeah. What?”
“Someone from the fire department wants to interview you. Possibly Glenn Meachum, the fire chief. You need to be prepared.”
“Interview me about what?”
“Boone’s ranch,” she said as she backed out of her parking space. “They’re saying it’s arson, and they’re looking for suspects. They’re going to want to know where you were right before the fire started.”
“I was home.”
Leanne turned out of the parking lot. “Were you alone?”
“None of your business. And they can interview me all day long because I didn’t do shit.”
“Okay. But you can’t just—”
“And Glenn Meachum can fuck off.”
“Ben…would you just listen a minute? Ben?”
He’d hung up.
“Shit!”
She tossed her phone aside. Now what? Her brother was going to walk right into a buzz saw, and he didn’t even seem to care.
Her phone chimed again, and she grabbed it.
“Ben?”
Nothing.
“Hello?”
“Uh, I’m trying to reach a Detective Everhart?”
The voice wasn’t familiar. She checked the screen, but she didn’t recognize the number.
“This is Leanne Everhart.”
“I’m calling from the El Paso crime lab,” he said. “I have a note about a rush request?”
Her pulse picked up. “Yes?”
“I wanted to let you know, the evidence you submitted has been processed, and the report is available.”
“Thank you.” She glanced at the clock. She had already blown through her deadline, so what would another detour matter?
“By ‘available,’ you mean it’s ready right now?” she asked.
“That’s correct. Would you like me to send—”
“No, I’ll be right over,” she told him. “I’m on my way.”