Chapter 69
CHAPTER
Ten days later, the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, Sampson and I finally got a return call from Pennsylvania police detective Tommy French.
We were at our desks, and John put the call on speaker. “Anything good, Tommy?”
“I asked folks in the DMV in every county in the commonwealth to look in their files for Pennsylvania plates beginning with TNZ or TNS,” French said.
“Right now we’ve got forty-two with the Z and one hundred and seventeen with the S.
We have nine that have a three behind both variations and sixty plates that have an eight.
Not one of them is registered to an older white Ford Econoline van. ”
“So it sounds like the plates were stolen,” I said, feeling one of our leads dying.
“I thought of that,” French said. “And I had them all cross-reference plates reported as stolen with my list. Struck out again.”
Sampson said, “Is it possible that the plates aren’t stolen? That maybe he’s taking them off one vehicle and putting them on the van when he’s using it?”
“Very possible,” French said.
We thanked the detective and went in to update Chief Pittman about our trip south last week and the video clips of the white van present at the sites of multiple crimes in the DC and Richmond area. We also told him about the issue with the plates.
The chief thought about that for several moments before saying, “Call French back. Ask him if it’s possible to search expired plates with those letters against old registrations.”
“See if a white van pops up,” I said. “Can’t hurt.”
Sampson nodded. “I suppose if we’re theorizing that he’d be willing to steal plates and drive around, why wouldn’t he also be willing to use expired plates?”
Pittman said, “No one would even know as long as he slapped on an up-to-date expiration sticker.”
It was nearly six in the evening, but Sampson tried French again and got him just before he was about to leave.
When we told him Chief Pittman’s idea, the detective balked. “I’ll ask, but I wouldn’t count on this happening quickly.”
I said, “We’ve got a lot of bodies down here, Tommy.”
“As long as it happens eventually, we’re good,” Sampson said.
He sighed. “Where should I begin?”
“Start ten years ago and work your way back.”
French wasn’t exactly thrilled, but he agreed to make the request in the morning.
When I reached home, I found Maria and Damon on the couch watching TV. My son had his head on his mom’s lap but shot upright when he saw me.
“The baby kicks, Daddy!” Damon said. “The baby kicks!”
Maria started laughing. “That’s all this baby does these days.”
“Like you said, maybe it’s a sign we’re gonna have a little athlete. A soccer star or maybe a runner,” I said, going to embrace them both.
“A marathoner, at this rate.” My wife kissed me and then groaned and rubbed at her side. “My lower ribs are all sore.”
Damon frowned. “Mommy hurt boo-boo?”
She smiled at him. “Mommy a little hurt boo-boo, D-man.”
He put his hand on her belly and leaned in close, still frowning, very serious. “Stop that, baby. No kicks. No hurt Mommy little boo-boo.”
For some reason, Maria and I both found that hilarious, and we laughed until we had tears coming down our faces.
“I love being that little boy’s mom,” she said later after Damon had gone down for the night and we’d laughed again about him lecturing his little sibling in utero.
“I love being his dad,” I said. “And your husband.”
“Aww,” Maria said, and kissed me. The baby kicked again.
“Wow, even I felt that,” I said.
“Baby wants out,” Maria said. “I predict this little one will be coming any day.”