“Yes. Lots of them. It seemed odd. I wrote down the model numbers and makes and compared them to a list of cars belonging to missing persons in the 1980s.”
“And you think this is connected to the bodies that have been turning up?”
“Yes. They’ve all had similar claw marks. I was told that a foster child under care of the Lanes had suffered something similar, so I went to investigate.”
She leans back in her chair and assesses me. “That’s quite a leap.”
“One of the victims at Cougar Creek had a similar wound. It seemed worth looking into.”
“On your own . . .”
There’s something about the way that she says this that’s slightly condescending.
“Let’s just say that the other authorities I’ve spoken to haven’t been very proactive.”
“Probably true. Can’t say that I’m much better. I’ve got a stack of reports and incidents that keeps growing.”
“I understand. But we’re talking about murder.”
“And I take this very seriously.” She picks up her radio shoulder mic. “This is 163. Do we have anyone near Highway 30 and Harris Road? Over.”
“Hey, Graham,” a man replies. “Finley is about ten minutes away from there.”
“Could you connect me to him?”
Seconds later an older voice announces himself. “Finley here. Over.”
“Hey, Fin. This is Graham. I’ve got a witness here with an interesting lead. Could you go over to 848 Harris and check on some possible stolen cars in the back of the property? Just ask the owner if they’ll let you do a search. If not, we’ll ask the sheriff what to do next.”
“Sure thing. That’s the Lane place, right?”
“Affirmative.”
“She doesn’t seem the type.”
“Maybe one of her foster kids.”
“Foster kids? I thought she lived alone.”
“This is going way back.”
“Roger.”
She turns her attention back to me. “We’ll see what he finds. If the owner won’t let us search, then we’ll see about a warrant. I’ll need you to speak to the sheriff at that point.”
“Whatever I can do.”
“So you think one of the foster kids is the fella that was killing all those girls?”
“I’d say there’s a definite connection there. The cars are what convinced me.” Since she seems at least into the theory and hasn’t locked me up or kicked me out, I decide to go a little further. “Can you pull up a list of names for the foster children who stayed there?”
“I’d have to call family services.” She checks her watch. “But . . . it might not be a bad idea to be a little proactive.”
She picks up her desk phone and dials. “Hey, Bonnie, this is Graham calling from the Poitier County sheriff’s office. I wanted to find out about getting the records for some foster parents going back to the late 1970s and early 1980s . . . uh-huh . . . Helena? . . . Can’t you do it electronically? No? . . . Well, if it’s not too much trouble, could you go ahead and have them pull them and set them aside? The department has a liaison there.”
When she hangs up, she shrugs. “That’s half my day, asking for things that I should be able to find in a second. My friend is calling over to Helena to have them pull the records. If your story pans out, then we’ll be able to dig in a little farther.”
I have no doubt that it will pan out. There’s no way the killer could remove that many cars overnight without leaving evidence.
Her radio bursts to life with an urgent announcement from the dispatcher. “All available units to respond to a fire at 848 Harris Road!”
Graham and I both look up in shock. Hers is more subdued than my own.
Her radio crackles. “Graham, this is Fin. Is that witness with you right now?”
“Right in front of me.”
“What time did he say he left the Lane residence?”
“Dr. Cray?” she asks.
“Last night. I went to the hospital after. You can talk to them,” I reply.
Graham relays this into her radio. “He says he was there last night. The department also got an e-mail from him last night as well.”
“Okay. Well. Damn it. The woods are on fire. Looks like it may have started a little while ago. I think we need you out here.”
Graham bolts upright. “Dr. Cray, I have to lock up the substation, but if you can stick around in this area, that would be helpful.”
“Of course. Anything.”
Jesus. He set the whole woods on fire to keep them from getting to the cars. But how much will that really help?
Dumbfounded, I follow Graham out the door and watch as she locks it.
As she heads to her car, there’s another call on the radio I can hear clearly. “Dispatch, this is Finley. I’m at 848 Harris and have a 10-54.”
Graham turns around and stares at me for a moment from the side of her police car, her hand hesitating on the door handle.
I force myself to give her a nod. “I’ll be at Darcy’s Hotcakes & Coffee if you need me,” I say.
“All right. Stay close,” she says, then climbs into her cruiser and drives off.
I wait until she’s around the corner to fall to my heels and take a deep breath. I’m amazed I lasted this long. The last radio call sent me into a panic it took all I had to suppress.
A 10-54 is police code for a possible dead body.
The killer not only tried to make the cars difficult to investigate, he murdered Mrs. Lane, the woman who raised him and the one person who might be able to connect him to his past.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
FOUNDLING
I walk to my Explorer expecting Graham to come tearing back down the street, siren blazing, ready to jump out of the cruiser with her gun drawn and tell me to go face-first into the pavement.
It’s not until I’m on the highway, heading in the opposite direction, that I feel a modicum of relief.
I try to process what happened after I left Lane’s house. The killer must have been concerned that I would go to the authorities, so he attempted to cover up a long-forgotten connection.
He probably assumed that the cars were safer back in the woods than trying to move them. And they probably were. Even if someone else had stumbled on them, abandoned cars aren’t exactly out of the norm around here. When I do searches on Google Maps, I spot old cars all the time, sitting in yards on blocks or just half-buried in the weeds with rotten tires.
The cars at the Lane property would be no big thing—unless you knew whom they previously belonged to. That’s what spooked the killer.
Torching the woods would only delay identifying them, even if he put some thermite on the engine blocks.
His real motive was to kill Julie Lane. Doing that would not only silence her but attract attention to me and misdirect the authorities. The killer wasn’t just getting rid of a loose end, he might be trying to frame me.
I’m the last person to see Lane. I’m also the one with a bizarre story involving the Cougar Creek Monster and the recent murders . . . and I left a trail of blood from the woods to the road.
If the killer strangled her and dipped one of her kitchen knives in my blood to make it look like she was trying to defend herself, I’ll have a hell of a time proving my innocence.
I take the exit leading to Helena instead of going back to Gus’s place. I have to get to those foster parent records and find out who I’m dealing with. Then I need to get a lawyer.
I also need to warn Gus and Jillian. I call her first.
“Hey! What’s up? How did the research go?” she says as soon as she picks up.
My words come out in a rush. “Jillian, I think I found out who he is, or least where he’s from. I think he just killed his foster parent to cover his tracks.”
“In Red Hook?”
“Yes. I was there yesterday talking to her. I found the cars in the woods that belonged to the missing hikers. There were ten of them.”
“Oh, my god!”
“That’s not all. He knows about me. He knows my name. That means he might know about you and Gus.”
“What are you saying?”
“I don’t know. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bring you into this.”
“You didn’t. Stop blaming yourself.”
“He might come for you.”
“Why?”
“Why does he do anything?”
“Where are you? Come here so we can talk about this.”
“I have to do something first. I need to get his name.”