Chapter Nine #2
Forester took off his gloves with a snap. “His death predates the creation of the DNA database, so you won’t get a match to any previous sample, but the analysis will confirm hair and eye color, and it can be used to compare with a surviving family member.”
“What about dental records?”
“There won’t be any digital files from that time frame. Physical X-rays from thirty years ago have probably been disposed of or archived.”
Wade knew his options were limited for a case this cold. Maybe Nava had been right about the futility of the endeavor. “Do college kids come around here much? To visit the lake, or ride ATVs?”
“They do, but most of the kids at the lake are locals.”
“I’ll look into missing person reports from Lost Lake and the surrounding area.
” He could also call Texas A&M for a list of students who were enrolled in 1988 but had dropped out unexpectedly or stopped coming to class.
If the victim was nineteen at the time of death, he’d have been a freshman or sophomore.
“You should request a forensic image,” Dr. Forester said. “There’s a technician in San Antonio who does a decent job.”
Wade filled out a request form on the spot.
He wanted to use every resource available.
He inquired about the storage of the remains, which would be handled by the deputy coroner, before he thanked Dr. Forester and left the building.
As soon as he entered the parking garage, he felt a wave of emotion wash over him.
He clenched his hands into fists, but he couldn’t stop his mind from going to a dark place.
Memories of his father with the coroner from Last Chance, pressuring him into participating in a cover-up.
When Wade’s breathing calmed, he returned to the Suburban and drove back to the station in Lost Lake.
He bypassed Sheriff Nava’s office, which appeared empty, and ducked into his own.
A new laptop had been delivered while he was gone, along with a text from the technology department with login information.
Wade spent twenty minutes organizing his office.
He put stacks of files into boxes, threw away old coffee cups and fast-food wrappers, and wiped down every dusty surface.
When his desk was clear, he fired up the laptop and dove into the database of unsolved missing person cases.
More than twenty teenagers had disappeared from Lost Lake in the late eighties.
Seven of those cases remained open. Five were female.
Their smiling school photos displayed careful makeup and feathered hair.
Wade didn’t linger over the images. Of the two male unsolved cases, only one was white, and neither were close to six feet tall.
He widened his search to include Brazos County, where Texas A&M was located.
There were dozens of male candidates from that area to consider, but some reports lacked photographs or other pertinent information, such as height or race.
He had to evaluate each one in detail. Down the rabbit hole he went.
Wade was deep in research mode, moving through the names on the list with methodical precision, when a call on his radio brought him back to the surface. To his surprise, four hours had gone by. His stomach growled with hunger.
“Hendricks,” he answered.
“Jackson Nava here. I’m on the scene with a Lakeside trailer park resident who claims a neighbor stole his handgun. The suspect is in one of the cabins at Lost Lake. I’d appreciate some assistance.”
“You got it,” Wade said. “What’s your location?”
Nava gave him the address, and Wade left his office immediately.
He drove to Lakeside Estates, which had suffered intense damage from the tornado.
It also bore the distinction of being the poorest community in the area.
When he arrived at the location, Jackson was waiting beside his black and white cruiser.
“I just spoke to Charlie Franklin,” Jackson said, gesturing to a mobile home.
“He lives here with his wife, Elvira. He came home early on the day of the tornado and startled an intruder inside his residence.” Jackson flipped a page in a pocket-sized spiral notebook.
“Caucasian male, six-foot plus. The guy ran out the back door.”
“He didn’t report it?”
“No. Sirens started blaring, and the tornado hit right after that. He didn’t realize the gun was missing until today.”
“Does he have proof it’s his?”
“He has the bill of sale,” Jackson said.
“Tell me about the suspect.”
“Charlie didn’t see his face, but he thinks it’s a guest from Lost Lake Retreats.” Jackson indicated a series of cabins between the campground and the trailer park. “The guy in cabin eight fits the description.”
“I fit the description,” Wade pointed out. “So do you.”
Jackson put his notebook away. “I agree that it’s vague, and between you and me, Charlie is an unreliable witness.”
“Why is that?”
“He’s a heavy drinker with a bad temper. He’s also got a young, pretty wife who sleeps around.”
Wade arched a brow. “Was she home at the time?”
“He says she wasn’t.”
“Maybe she ran out the back door, too.”
“Maybe she did,” Jackson agreed. “Either way, I want to speak to the neighbor. I met him the other day when I was doing wellness checks. There was something off about him.”
Wade followed his gaze to a sign that read Lost Lake Retreats. A winding road appeared to circle around the lake, with rustic cabins nestled among some looming pine trees. Beyond the cabins was a large RV campground that catered to summer tourists. In a few months, every space would be filled.
“What do you mean by something off?” Wade asked.
“He was guarded. On edge.”
“A tornado came through. Everyone was on edge.”
“Not like this. When I came up on him, he was hammering something. He had the radio blaring, so he didn’t hear me until I got close. Then he whirled around and lifted the hammer like he was going to brain me with it.”
Wade let out a low whistle. “Did you draw on him?”
“No,” Jackson said. “I rested my hand on my holster, but I didn’t move.
He lowered the hammer and let it drop. He seemed kind of embarrassed about his jumpiness.
His left arm was in a sling, so maybe he was touchy because of that.
I pretended he hadn’t scared the shit out of me, asked a few questions, and left. ”
“Did you run him?”
“I did. He’s clean.”
“Well damn,” Wade said, his interest sparked. “And your dad said this town was sleepy.”
“It has its moments. You ready?”
“Let’s go.”
They drove the short distance to the suspect’s location.
The cabins in Lost Lake Retreats were grouped by twos, and most appeared to have sustained minor damage in the tornado.
Jackson came to a stop behind a rusted white work truck at the last set of cabins.
Wade parked underneath a nearby tree and joined him.
Jackson indicated the white pickup. “This vehicle was purchased in Houston less than a week ago.”
Wade surveyed the construction equipment and supplies in the bed of the truck. Then he glanced toward the front of the cabin, where a tall figure loomed inside the screened doorway. “He’s home.”
Jackson squared his shoulders and moved forward.
He might be a rookie, but he didn’t lack courage.
Wade followed with his right hand on his gun holster, his muscles coiled with tension.
A lot of things could go wrong on a visit like this.
Wade noted that the Franklin residence was visible through the sparse oak trees between the cabins and the trailer park.
It wouldn’t be difficult for them to keep an eye on the neighbors.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Murphy,” Jackson said, touching his Stetson in greeting. “Do you mind coming outside for a quick chat?”
The man’s face was obscured by the screen. “What’s it regarding?”
“Stolen property.”
After a pause, Murphy opened the door. Wade understood why the guy had unsettled Jackson.
He was built like a brick wall, with a boxer’s ready stance and icy blue eyes.
Although his left arm was in a sling, as described, he didn’t appear weakened by the injury.
Wade estimated the man’s height, weight, age, and striking distance as he stepped forward.
He was wearing loose clothing, which could disguise a weapon, and slip-on shoes that wouldn’t help him win a footrace.
Jackson cleared his throat and continued. “One of the residents in this area reported a theft.”
“What’s that got to do with me?” Murphy asked in a low voice.
“How long have you been in Lost Lake?”
“A week.”
“Have you noticed any suspicious activity since you arrived?”
“I mind my own business.”
“We heard about some looting on the day of the tornado,” Jackson said.
Murphy squinted toward the campground. “I saw a few kids grabbing melted ice cream. Is that the high crime you’re investigating?”
Jackson flushed at the question, which was meant to needle him.
“Have you interacted with any of the neighbors?” Wade asked.
The man’s brows rose. “I gave someone a jump a few days back.”
“Who?”
“A woman from the trailer park. Evelyn, maybe? She had a dead battery.”
“Elvira?”
“That was it. She flagged me down for help.”
Jackson took out his notebook. “What day was that?”
“Friday.”
“Did you go inside her residence?”
“No.”
“Were you invited in?” Wade pressed.
“What difference does it make?” Murphy asked, looking back and forth between them. “Are you two investigating stolen property or bored housewives?”
Wade and Jackson exchanged a glance.
“There’s been a report of an intruder who matches your description,” Jackson said.
Murphy’s gaze narrowed. “I haven’t been inside anyone’s residence, and I haven’t touched anyone’s property.”
“What about Elvira?” Jackson asked.
“What about her?”
Although Jackson didn’t ask if Murphy had touched her, the question hung in the air. “Her husband is the jealous type, and he’s a gun owner.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Murphy said. “Are we done?”