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“I don’t know, but we can’t rule anything out at this point.” She had to hold herself back from searching the body herself. “Dr. Jennings didn’t know about this investigation until she was called to the scene of the first body. There was nothing about her or in our conversations to suggest she had a connection with the Joel Brody case.”
The director stared down at the body as if waiting for Dr. Jennings to stand up, shake it off, and get back to work. “Boucher, have your officers be on the lookout for Dr. Jennings’s phone and laptop. I want to know if her apartment was cleaned like the other victims’ as well.”
All the pieces were lining up, attributing to the same killer. Same amount of stab wounds, same MO, same flair for drama by leaving the body in a public place. They didn’t have all the details yet, but three deaths within such a short amount of time only led to one conclusion.
They had a serial killer on their hands.
“You really think we’re going to find anything? I don’t know about the morgue, but it’s against protocol for law enforcement officers to take home files or evidence pertaining to ongoing cases,” Boucher said. “What would the killer have wanted with an ME’s personal devices?”
The question tumbled end over end. The lieutenant had a point. “According to her notes, Michelle Cross was writing a true crime book about the Joel Brody case. We’d have to assume her manuscript and notes were stored on her phone and laptop.” The headline Leigh had found buried in the victim’s research solidified at the front of her mind. “We’ve been running off the theory these cases are linked. If the unsub’s goal is to keep something from the original investigation from going public, he had reason to take everything Michelle Cross had. Only he didn’t know about the attic space in Michelle’s home, and he didn’t know the exact number of stab wounds. He’s new at this. He cleaned that entire house to cover his tracks, but the surveillance photos of Chris Ellingson and newspaper articles from over the years were too well hidden.”
“According to my contact at Scotland Yard, Gresham Schmidt kept paper files. He didn’t trust technology and had the propensity to hide his case files in all kinds of places around his home and in the paneling of his car,” Livingstone said. “At this point, I believe it’s safe to say Schmidt had gotten himself involved in the original investigation.”
“Okay. Then we can assume both victims hid their involvement and research concerning the case. From friends, family, coworkers. Nobody knew what they were really doing, but the killer found out.” She felt as if they were going in circles. Nothing was adding up. While Chris Ellingson had motive to kill Michelle Cross for costing him his job and perhaps even to keep the truth about him from getting out, none of the physical evidence pointed them back to him. The child psychologist was intelligent, familiar with police procedure, and overly intimate with the original case thanks to a leak in the department. But he couldn’t be in two places at once if the hardware store owner had been telling the truth about Ellingson’s alibi, and he couldn’t change what made him who he was.
The man who’d killed her brother and Derek Garrison wouldn’t have achieved satisfaction by stabbing these recent victims only twenty-two times. Her initial analysis of the case centered around one truth: This unsub was well-versed in forensics and procedure, but that knowledge didn’t come freely. It was trained, studied, and practiced hundreds of times over. “We’ve kept the details of this investigation out of the media. Dr. Jennings’s name was never mentioned in news reports or media coverage. So how did the killer know she was involved in the investigation? How did he know any of them were looking into what happened twenty years ago?”
“A cop.” A heaviness they all felt pressed along Leigh’s shoulders. “If Gresham Schmidt was investigating the original case, he would’ve approached someone within the department to get ahold of the case files. You said Michelle Cross interviewed Chief Maynor, and Dr. Jennings’s name would have been all over the initial scene reports.”
“You don’t seriously believe your own bullshit, do you?” Boucher’s sense of honor fed quickly into his ego. Small muscles along his jaw clenched under pressure. “A cop didn’t do this. You think I’m going to stand here and let you bring down this department all over again? You’re wrong.” He pointed out over the park. “These are good officers. They risk their lives every day trying to protect this town and the people in it. For all we know your daddy could be pulling the strings from prison to get his sentence overturned. Or, hell, maybe he is innocent, and the son of a bitch who killed your brother is playing you. Instead of undoing twenty years’ worth of work in a community you turned your back on, how about you accept the truth: The only reason you’re here is because you’ve convinced everyone in this unit you’re important. But I guess we all lie to ourselves from time to time.”
Boucher turned on his heel, heading for the perimeter tape.
Leaving the invisible hole in Leigh’s chest pulsing.
“Excuse me.” Director Livingstone followed after the lieutenant, bringing him to a halt with a single call of his name. They were too far away for Leigh to catch the conversation, but within a minute, Boucher shoved through a grouping of officers and headed for his cruiser.
Leigh caught sight of Officer Pierce directing people behind the yellow crime scene tape. With his dominant hand extended, she remembered the smudge of black on the back of his index finger as they’d left the station in response to the call. Pierce had been the first officer on the scene when she’d clawed herself out of those damn woods after the shove down the hill.
Because he’d been the closest after luring her into the woods?
Because he’d been the one to threaten her and graffiti her garage?
It was obvious he hadn’t wanted her here from the beginning. To him and others in this town, her family had destroyed Lebanon’s sense of peace. Just as Boucher had accused her of doing.
Livingstone resumed her position a few feet from the victim. “The ME’s office has sent another medicolegal investigator to collect the body and begin the examination. What’s your next move, Agen’ Brody?”
Her brain worked to match the voice of her attacker with the limited conversations she’d had with Officer Pierce at the primary scene, but she was met with dark spots where memories should’ve been. Concussions sometimes came with gaps. Temporary or permanent, it just depended on the sufferer, but her gut said Pierce showing up as fast as he had last night wasn’t a coincidence. “I think it’s time I finally had a talk with my father.”
SIXTEEN
Lebanon, New Hampshire
Tuesday, April 1, 2004
8:00 p.m.
Three days.
Troy hadn’t come home.
Her legs ached from the miles she’d spent biking all day. Leigh had searched every inch of the park, the school, and the stretch of woods behind their house. She’d asked friends and teachers if they’d seen him, even Mr. Ellingson, the school’s psychologist, who’d spearheaded the volunteer search team.
No one had seen her brother.
The police hadn’t come by the house since the night Troy had signed up to help clean the church. That detective—Maynor—wouldn’t answer her questions, wouldn’t tell her if they’d found anything. What were the police doing all day?
Her brother was missing. They should’ve been on the streets. They should’ve been getting fingerprints, chasing down Troy’s bike. Not letting the community take the lead.
