Chapter Six
The two Malone brothers and Rafe pulled into the sheriff’s department parking lot at eight the next morning.
Sean climbed out of his Mustang and joined the other men near the far end of the lot, taking in the scene at the building’s main entrance.
News vans crowded every available space, their satellite dishes pointed toward the gray morning sky.
Reporters clustered along the front walkway with microphones in hand while camera operators jockeyed for position.
A cold knot formed in his gut. “This can’t be good.”
Brian shoved his hands into the pockets of his sports coat and frowned at the crowd. “Let’s hope it has nothing to do with our case.”
“Twenty bucks says it does,” Rafe said.
His partner snorted. “Not even I’m dumb enough to take that bet. And speaking of bets, you still owe me twenty from the poker game the other night.”
“Sure. As soon as I get around to rolling up your change.”
After shooting Rafe a glare, Brian turned to his brother. “Would you believe this idiot once paid off a fifty-dollar bet in dimes, nickels, and pennies?”
Despite himself, Sean let out a short laugh. The two of them bickered like an old married couple. But the mention of pennies dragged his thoughts right back to the case—to the coins with matching years placed on each victim's forehead. His amusement vanished.
The three men crossed the lot and slipped through the chaos without drawing attention. Sean had on a dark suit while Brian and Rafe wore sports coats, their weapons and badges concealed. To the reporters, they looked like any other professionals heading into the municipal building.
After showing their credentials at the front desk, they were buzzed through the secured door into the back hallway and headed straight for Matt’s office.
Nancy Kessler sat behind her desk in the reception area with a phone tucked between her shoulder and ear while she scribbled notes onto a yellow memo pad.
Her husband had taught history at Whisper High and coached both Malone brothers in football years earlier, so she recognized them at once.
She offered them a quick smile and motioned for them to sit. The knot in Sean’s gut cinched tighter. Whatever waited on the other side of the sheriff’s door, it wasn’t good.
The office door was shut, but Matt’s raised voice carried through the frosted glass.
“I want to know who the leak is, and I want to know now. All hell’s breaking loose out there, and we’re no closer to catching this bastard than we were two months ago. Every politician in Dare County is demanding answers, and I don’t have any to give them.”
Sean exchanged a grim look with Brian.
“Brooks, pass the word that no one—and I mean no one—is to talk to the press about this case without my approval. Dworski, since every reporter in the county is camped outside, you might as well make a statement.”
Another man spoke, his voice muffled through the door. “What do you want me to say?”
“Tell them we have three homicides that may be related and that we’ve formed a task force with state and federal agents.
Don’t give any details about the murders yet—the pennies and the carvings stay under wraps.
Tell them we’re doing everything possible to catch him.
Warn women to take extra precautions. Blah, blah, blah. You know the routine.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And we’ll hold daily press conferences at eleven starting tomorrow. Maybe that’ll keep some of them from snooping around.”
A brief silence followed before Matt’s voice rose again.
“If I catch anyone from this department talking to any reporter without permission, even if it’s the damn maintenance staff, I swear there’ll be hell to pay.
They’ll be scrubbing every patrol car and piece of equipment with a toothbrush for the next three years. Dismissed.”
The office door flew open, and two uniformed captains stepped out, followed by the sheriff, who looked as though he’d aged five years overnight.
“Nancy, hold my calls for the next hour unless the building catches fire. My head’s splitting in two.”
Still balancing the phone receiver against her shoulder, the receptionist opened her desk drawer and handed him a bottle of ibuprofen. The sheriff muttered his thanks, shook out two pills, and dry-swallowed them before turning to the waiting agents.
“I figured it was only a matter of time before the press came knocking.” He jerked his head toward the office. “Come on in, guys. Welcome to the circus.”
Entering the office, Sean spotted another man seated at the conference table.
He rose as they approached, and Sean recognized him at once as the father of his high school friend Jack.
The years had added some gray to Brad Lynch’s dark hair, but otherwise, the detective looked much the same as Sean remembered.
Matt handled the introductions. “Brad Lynch, you already know Brian and Sean Malone. This is Rafe Montoya with the SBI.”
After shaking hands all around, Brad flashed Brian a grin. “Hey, nice drug bust a few weeks ago.”
Sean knew exactly which case he meant. Brian and Rafe had worked with DEA agents on a major operation that pulled nearly a million dollars’ worth of drugs off the streets.
Brian gave a modest nod. “Thanks.”
The detective turned to Sean. “Good to see you again. It’s been a long time.”
“At least eight or ten years.” Sean took a seat at the table. “How’ve you been?”
“Good. Just got back from Jack’s wedding.”
“I heard. Tell him congratulations for me.”
“I will.” Brad lowered himself into his chair. “Your uncle told me you’re moving back.”
“I accepted a post in Greenville—wanted to be closer to the family.”
“Yeah, he also mentioned KC and his wife are expecting. That’s great.”
From the head of the table, Matt cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, you can catch up later. Let’s get through this so I can get rid of all of you and this headache at the same time.”
A few tired chuckles circled the room before Brian dropped his notepad onto the table. “How bad is the leak?”
Matt scowled and dragged a hand down his face. “Hard to say. The press doesn’t seem to know many details, but somehow they got the victims’ names and the locations where the bodies were dumped.”
“Ah, hell,” Rafe muttered.
That was putting it mildly. Sean had known Matt Griffin most of his life, and the sheriff’s expression made one thing clear—when he found the leak, there would be consequences.
Loose information could taint witness testimony, compromise evidence, and hand a defense attorney exactly what they needed to poke holes in a future prosecution.
Sean leaned forward and folded his hands on the conference table. The smell of stale coffee and old paper hung in the air while the muffled buzz of reporters drifted through the windows.
“I agree,” Matt said. “Let’s get this moving. Brad?”
The detective opened a thick case file and flipped through several pages before beginning.
“Two months ago, Becky Travis, twenty-two, left a friend’s party after drinking almost half a bottle of vodka by herself.
She apparently did a disappearing act without saying goodbye and started walking home.
It was only three blocks, but she never made it.
Two days later, sanitation workers found her in an alley in Kitty Hawk.
Naked, ligature strangulation, ‘sinner’ carved into her torso, and a penny on her forehead.
No witnesses. Surveillance footage from nearby businesses was limited and didn’t show anything useful. ”
Sean studied the crime scene photo Brad slid across the table. Even after seeing Daphne Jones, the image still made his stomach turn.
Another photo, of a different woman, was added to the first before Brad continued.
“Three weeks ago, Shannon Emerson, twenty-four, was at a bachelorette party at The Toy Box in Elizabeth City. They host a male revue starting at nine. The audience is reservations-only for that, then they open to the general public around ten-thirty.” He glanced around the table.
“Her friends never saw her leave. Everyone was drunk enough that they didn’t realize she was gone until around one.
She was supposed to drive two of the women home, and her car was still in the parking lot. ”
“Any surveillance video?” Rafe asked.
Brad shook his head. “Inside footage is black-and-white and grainy. We spotted her several times, but once the crowd thickened, it became impossible to track her. Exterior cameras had been down for weeks, and management never got around to fixing them.”
Sean exchanged a look with Brian. Convenient.
“Her body was found near the tree line by Manteo High’s soccer field.
Groundskeeping spotted her before students arrived, so we got lucky and secured the area fast.” Brad tapped the file.
“Same condition as Becky—penny on the forehead, sinner carved into her torso, and strangled. No clothing was recovered at either scene, though photos from both parties show they were dressed for a night out. We cleared ex-boyfriends, checked family, friends, and coworkers. No stalkers. No threats. And nothing connecting the victims.”
Sean picked up from there, sliding Daphne’s file closer as every eye in the room shifted his way.
“The latest victim is Daphne Jones, thirty-two. Same general pattern.” He flipped open the folder, added her photo to the others, and then scanned his notes, though most of the details were already burned into his memory.
“She was out drinking with friends Saturday night and dressed to the nines, according to her roommate.
No known enemies. No reports of anyone bothering her.
Her last serious relationship ended about a year ago when the guy relocated to California for work. No indication of bad blood.
“She was discovered after midnight, Monday morning. The penny and the carving were the same, but this time, after strangling her, he did CPR on her, reviving her several times, only to do it again.”
“Damn,” Brad muttered. “He’s evolving.”
“Yup. That’s what the coroner said too. So far, it looks like he’s targeting blonde party girls. Women who’ve been drinking, separated from their friends, and vulnerable enough to disappear without drawing attention. It’s possible these women were chosen at random. Wrong place, wrong time.”
Sean paused, his gaze dropping to the map spread across the table.
“What bothers me are the dump sites. Becky and Shannon were left where they’d be found fast. Public enough to guarantee discovery.
” He tapped the wooded section marked near Red Maple Park.
“Daphne was different. If those dogs hadn’t caught the scent, she might’ve stayed out there another day or two before anyone found her.
That could mean something... or it could mean nothing. ”
The sheriff shifted in his chair. The leather creaked beneath him.
“We still haven’t tracked down Stuart Crowell. Patrol’s looking.” Matt pinned Sean with a tired stare. “What’re the chances he’s our guy?”
He leaned back and lifted one widespread hand before letting it drop again.
“Not great. He doesn’t fit the profile I’d expect for a serial offender, but we can’t ignore the print.
We have to clear him.” He thought back to Cunningham’s call late the afternoon before, the lab tech’s voice crackling through his cell while Sean had been driving home.
“The other pennies only had partial smudges. Nothing usable. And the lab didn’t find evidence they’d been chemically cleaned. ”
Which left them exactly where they’d been yesterday—chasing fragments and theories while the man they were hunting was still out there.
“So, where do we go from here?” Rafe asked.
Brad leaned forward, forearms braced on the table.
The file folders spread before him looked like a paper battlefield.
As task force lead, the next moves were his to call.
Under most circumstances, an FBI or SBI agent would take point, but Sean had no issue deferring to Brad Lynch.
The detective knew Dare County, knew the players, and had already been buried in this case for weeks.
“We’ve got the surveillance footage from Visions. I’ll review it with our video specialist. Every camera angle is in a separate file, so it’ll take most of the day.”
Sean slid the photo of Daphne toward him. “Her roommate gave me this. It was taken at the restaurant before they went to the club. Should make it easier to pick her out.”
Brad gave a quick nod and tucked it into the file.
“Sean, can you patch into the FBI database and see if there’ve been similar homicides in other states? It’ll save time over putting in a formal request.”
“Consider it done. My laptop’s in the car.”
“And start building a profile on our UNSUB while you’re at it.
” Brad shifted his attention to the other side of the table.
“Brian, Rafe, check with BCI and see if Hank’s got anything new.
Deputy Emory stopped by Visions last night and pulled a list of everyone working Saturday, along with contact info.
It was a busy night for patrol, so that’s all he was able to get.
Once you’re done at the lab, start the interviews, please. ”
Pens scratched across notepads as everyone jotted down assignments. Brad rattled off his office and cell numbers, then collected theirs.
“We’ll regroup here around five.” He leaned back, the chair giving a tired squeak beneath him. “By then this case will be all over every station in the state, so brace yourselves for the flood of psychics, armchair detectives, and every citizen who suddenly thinks they’ve cracked the case.”
A few grim smiles circled the table. Sean knew exactly what was coming.
Open investigations made people crawl out of nowhere, desperate to be useful, desperate for attention, or convinced they’d uncovered some hidden truth.
Most leads amounted to wasted hours and dead ends.
Still, somewhere in that avalanche of nonsense, there was always the chance one phone call would matter.
And until they found the man responsible, they couldn’t afford to ignore any of them.