Chapter 18
Harper spent the night researching every unsolved murder in cities where Dale Sutton had worked. Portland, Seattle, Baker City. She pulled reports from police databases, cross-referenced dates with Sutton’s employment records, built a timeline that stretched back seven years.
By the time gray dawn light filtered through the cabin windows, she had nineteen possible victims across four states. Nineteen women who matched the profile, who’d been killed with similar methods, whose murders remained unsolved.
Nineteen families who’d never gotten justice.
Silas found her at the kitchen table at six a.m., surrounded by printouts and case files, her laptop still glowing.
“Did you sleep at all?” he asked, concern etched on his face.
“Couple hours.” Harper rubbed her burning eyes then turned back to the work spread out in front of her. “Look at this.”
She showed him the timeline she’d constructed. Sutton’s employment history overlaid with murder dates, the correlation impossible to ignore. In every city where he’d worked for more than a few months, women died.
“This is damning,” Silas said, studying her work. “But it’s still circumstantial. Defense attorneys would argue correlation doesn’t equal causation.”
“I know. But it’s a pattern. And combined with the evidence tampering, his proximity to Blackridge victims, his history of inappropriate behavior—” Harper’s voice was tight with frustration. “How much more do we need before we can move on him?”
“Physical evidence linking him directly to a crime scene. Something he can’t explain away.” Silas poured coffee into two mugs and handed her one. “But this is good work. This shows motivation, opportunity, a clear pattern of behavior. It’s building blocks for the case.”
Harper sipped her coffee, staring at the faces of nineteen women who might have been Sutton’s victims. “We need to contact the departments in these cities. See if they have any physical evidence stored, anything that could be retested with modern forensics.”
“That’ll take weeks. Months, probably.”
“Then we start now.”
Later, at the station, Harper presented her findings to Captain Holloway. He studied the timeline grimly, his expression growing darker as he absorbed the implications.
“If Sutton really is responsible for all these murders,” Holloway said quietly, “we’re looking at one of the most prolific serial killers in the Pacific Northwest in decades.”
“Which is why we need to move carefully,” Harper said. “If we arrest him and can’t make charges stick, he disappears and continues killing somewhere else. We need ironclad evidence.”
“Agreed. I’ll start reaching out to the other departments, see what evidence they have in storage.
” Holloway pulled up the duty roster. “In the meantime, Sutton is scheduled to work swing shift today—three p.m. to midnight. We maintain surveillance during his off hours, and I want extra eyes on him while he’s on patrol. ”
“You’re still letting him work?” Harper couldn’t keep the incredulity from her voice.
“It isn’t ideal, but we have no grounds to suspend him.
He hasn’t been charged with anything, hasn’t violated any department policies we can prove.
If I suddenly pull him off patrol, he’ll know we’re looking at him.
” Holloway’s tone was firm as he sat back in his chair and looked up at her.
“We keep him working, keep him thinking everything is normal, while we build our case.”
Harper clenched her teeth. She hated it, but she understood the logic. They couldn’t tip their hand too early.
At nine a.m., Morris knocked on the conference room door and entered without preamble. “FBI lab called with updated analysis on the fiber evidence. They’ve narrowed down the specific uniform batch.”
Harper’s pulse quickened as she moved to his side. “Show me.”
Morris pulled up the lab report on the main screen.
“The fibers found at the crime scenes come from a specific production batch of polyester blend fabric manufactured eighteen months ago. That batch was sold to only three agencies—Oregon State Police, a private security firm in Eugene, and Blackridge Police Department.”
“Can we narrow it further?” Silas asked.
“Already did. Oregon State Police uses a different uniform cut and style—the fiber weave pattern doesn’t match.
The security firm went out of business a year ago and their remaining uniform inventory was donated to charity.
” Morris highlighted the relevant section.
“That leaves Blackridge PD. The fibers found at our crime scenes are consistent with current Blackridge Police Department patrol uniforms issued within the last eighteen months.”
Harper felt triumph surge through her. “So our killer has access to Blackridge PD uniforms. Current uniforms, not old ones purchased secondhand.”
“Which means he’s either currently employed by Blackridge PD or has access to their uniform supply,” Holloway said. “How many officers received uniform issues from that batch?”
Morris checked the records. “Forty-three officers total. But only twelve match our profile parameters—male, age thirty to fifty, appropriate physical build.”
“Twelve suspects,” Harper said. “And Sutton is one of them.”
“He’s at the top of the list based on everything else we know,” Holloway agreed. “But we need to investigate all twelve thoroughly. If we focus solely on Sutton and miss someone else, we’ve failed.”
They spent the morning pulling detailed records on all twelve officers. Service histories, performance reviews, any complaints or disciplinary actions, personal background checks. It was tedious work, but necessary.
By lunch, they’d eliminated eight officers—five had solid alibis for at least one murder, two were on medical leave during the killing spree, and one had been working patrol in a different part of the city during all the estimated times of death.
That left four viable suspects: Dale Sutton, Officer James Reeves, Officer Andrew Garrett, and Officer Ray Calder.
“Reeves has been with the department fifteen years,” Morris said, pulling up his file. “Excellent service record, multiple commendations. He’s also fifty-two—older than our profile suggests.”
“Garrett is thirty-one, matches the physical description,” Holt added. “But he transferred to Blackridge from California only eight months ago. The Portland and Seattle murders predate his time in Oregon.”
“Calder is forty-three, decent record, been with Blackridge for six years.” Morris showed his photo. “But look—he’s six-foot-four, two hundred and forty pounds. Significantly larger than our profile suggests.”
“Which brings us back to Sutton,” Harper said. “Mid-thirties, average build, employment history that places him in every city where murders occurred, access to current Blackridge uniforms, and evidence tampering behavior. He’s our guy.”
“Probably,” Holloway agreed. “But we still need proof.”
There was that word again: proof. Harper was sick of hearing it. But she pressed on, determined to get what they needed to finally end this.
At noon, Sanchez entered the conference room looking excited. “I’ve been analyzing the surveillance footage from Amanda Crawford’s disappearance more carefully. Found something.”
He pulled up enhanced video on the main screen. “This is from a traffic camera at the intersection of Maple and Seventh—the dead zone where Amanda disappeared from view. Look at the timestamp. Seven thirty-four p.m., two minutes after she left the restaurant.”
Everyone leaned in. The footage showed an intersection at dusk. Cars passing through, pedestrians on sidewalks. Then, briefly visible in the corner of the frame, a Blackridge PD patrol car.
“That’s Unit 23,” Sanchez said. “Dale Sutton’s assigned vehicle.”
Harper leaned even closer to the screen, squinting. “Can you enhance the image? See if there’s anyone in the passenger seat?”
Sanchez worked his keyboard. The image pixelated, then sharpened. The patrol car’s driver was clearly visible—male, dark uniform, features obscured by the angle and lighting. The passenger seat was harder to see, but there might have been someone there. Or it might have been shadows.
“I can’t tell for certain if there’s a passenger,” Sanchez admitted. “The resolution isn’t good enough.”
“But Sutton was at that intersection at the exact time Amanda disappeared,” Silas said. “That’s not coincidental.”
“His patrol route included that area,” Holloway pointed out. “He was supposed to be there. That’s his job.”
“But what if he used his position to approach Amanda?” Harper said, thinking it through aloud. “She’s walking alone at night, a police officer pulls up, asks if she needs a ride or if she’s okay. She’d trust a cop. She’d probably accept help if he offered it.”
“That’s speculation,” Holloway said. “We can’t prove he made contact with her based on him driving through an intersection.”
“Can we pull GPS data from Unit 23?” Harper asked. “See exactly where Sutton went that night?”
“Already requested it,” Morris said. “Should have the data by this afternoon.”
While they waited for the GPS data, Harper and Silas reviewed everything they had on Sutton one more time.
Employment history, duty assignments, evidence room access logs, background from Baker City.
Piece by piece, they were building a picture of a serial killer who’d hidden in plain sight for years.
At two p.m., Morris had the GPS data. They pulled it up on the map, tracking Sutton’s movements on the night Amanda Crawford disappeared.
“He left the station at three-oh-five p.m. when his shift started,” Morris narrated, following the GPS trail. “Drove his normal patrol route through downtown. Multiple stops—traffic stop at four-fifteen, responded to a noise complaint at five-thirty, routine patrol through the downtown corridor.”
The GPS showed Sutton’s car moving through the city in what appeared to be normal patrol patterns. Then, at seven thirty-two p.m., the car stopped at the intersection of Maple and Seventh.