Chapter 73
CHAPTER
The detective was a short, stocky man with a bull neck and a buzz cut he must’ve had since his days as a U.S. Army MP. He took off his aviator glasses and shook Sampson’s hand and then mine.
“I checked with Diggs’s parole officer, and he confirmed the Kirkwood address but said he had no record of Eamon owning any property.”
“Chester County Recorder confirmed ownership,” I said.
“I know,” French said. “I double-checked, and because Diggs did not declare it, we have ample just cause to go in and take a look around to see if he is in violation of his parole.”
French said that due to the recent rain, the way into the farm that Diggs inherited was likely to be very muddy. He suggested we leave our squad car outside town and ride in his truck with him to the farm.
We put on our body armor and got in. Sampson sat up front and was immediately enamored of the truck.
“I like this, Alex. You’re up here, king of the road. This new, Tommy?”
The detective smiled, said, “Got it last month. More practical than anything for the way I live.”
“I want one.”
“Could be tough to park in DC, John.”
“I’d learn.”
I said, “Tell us about Diggs.”
French visibly stiffened at the wheel. “Diabolical. Smart. Played mind games with the women he violated. Made them think he was going to kill them at any moment.”
“Sadistic control,” I said.
“That’s Eamon Diggs through and through.”
“How’d he get out after only twelve years?”
“Like I said, Diggs is very sharp. Once he figured out the game at the penitentiary, he played it. Zero infractions. Model prisoner. Went through counseling. Found Jesus. All that bullshit. But you know how it is with those guys. They never change.”
“Some do,” I said. “But it is rare for them to keep their urges bottled up for good.”
“Exactly,” French said. “I’ve been waiting ever since he got out for a report to surface that matched his MO.”
Sampson said, “Which was what, exactly?”
“Young woman gets taken, drugged, assaulted, sometimes repeatedly, scoured clean, and then dumped alive in a rural area.”
“Alive. That’s surprising,” I said.
“He was also a suspect in two murder-rapes, but we could never make them stick.”
“So you wouldn’t put homicide past him,” Sampson said.
“Not a chance.”
Within ten minutes we were taking a left at where the preserve began, and French was explaining how the property was managed with fire in adherence with American Indian practices.
Indeed, over the next few miles, we saw several long wide strips of grassland that had been burned and now awaited the regrowth of spring.
“Here we go,” French said and turned at a dilapidated mailbox that was leaning so far right, it defied gravity.
The cornfields to our left had been harvested; the odd stalk stuck up out of the dirt here and there. There were several rows of mature pines on our right, which French said had probably been planted as a windbreak.
We had almost reached the farmyard when we bounced through a muddy rut.
One hundred and fifty feet ahead of French’s pickup, dead center on the gravel drive, thunder clapped.
A fireball erupted, blowing a column fifteen feet high.
The truck’s windshield shattered.