Stevens Chevy - Never Knowing

He nodded. “I know you were careful and wore gloves, but it’s one of those department regulations we can’t get away from. Remember, I’m on your side. We both have the same goal — to put John behind bars. The right piece of evidence and we’ve got him.” “What about the boxes? Did anyone see him sending them?”

“A clerk in Prince George thought he remembered the person who shipped the first box, but his description was of a man with a dark beard and sunglasses with a baseball cap pulled low. He’s probably wearing a disguise. We’ll follow up on this package right away, but unless the depot has a camera, or someone saw his vehicle, we’re no further ahead.” “What about the jack plane — can’t you find out where he bought it?”

“We’ve notified any stores in the Interior that sell them, but there are literally hundreds.”

“That sucks, and I get that you guys are frustrated, but I wish Sandy would lose her attitude.”

“She’s formed friendships with a lot of the victims’ families, so every time he slips through our fingers she feels like she’s letting them down. Sandy releases her tension out loud. But that has nothing to do with you — you’re doing great. That call last night was perfect.” “I still don’t feel like I’m getting enough out of him.”

“Remember, brick by brick. Anything he reveals is more than we knew before. ‘Do not pursue an enemy feigning flight.’ If you pressure him too much, he could become suspicious.”

“I don’t know, maybe … Sometimes it feels like he’s a little off mentally, you know? Not just violent, but sort of disconnected from reality. He doesn’t seem worried at all.”

“He’s confident and arrogant. But that doesn’t make him any less dangerous. Remember that.” Outside a horn honked. Billy smiled. “I better go before she drives off and leaves me here.”

As I walked him to the door I said, “I was reading an article the other day about how some killers keep trophies and souvenirs. You said the jewelry is his souvenir, so what’s the doll?”

“That’s what we need to find out. But feel free to e-mail me any articles that trigger something for you — any questions too. Even if it’s just random notes. We’re used to viewing everything from our perspective, but you might have a fresh take.” “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ve been doing a lot of research. I don’t know if it’s helping me much, though. Just scares me, then I can’t sleep for hours.”

“Did you pick up a copy of The Art of War ?”

“I keep forgetting. But I’ll try to get one this week.”

“It will help. I’m usually up late going over my notes or reviewing the file again, so feel free to call anytime you need to get something out of your head.” He held my gaze. “We’re going to catch him, Sara. I’m doing everything I can, okay?” “Thanks, Billy. I really needed to hear that.”

John called later that night. Thankfully Ally was already in bed, but I stayed downstairs to make sure she didn’t hear me.

“Did you get my gift?”

“It’s really nice, thanks. Did you make it?” As I thanked him, I realized it was the first time I’d done that.

“Yes.”

“The detail on it was incredible. How did you learn how to do that?”

“My mother taught me how to sew. She taught me how to work with leather too.”

“That’s really cool. She must have been a neat woman. You never told me what her background was.”

“Haida, from the Queen Charlotte Islands.”

“I’m part First Nations ?”

His tone was proud now. “The Haida believe in passing their stories down through each generation, and now I can share mine with you. I’ve got some good hunting stories. I could write a book.” He chuckled. “Did you know a bear looks similar to a human when it’s skinned? The hands and feet especially. Except the feet are backwards, and the big toe is on the outside.” “No, I didn’t know that.” I didn’t want to know that. “Do you hunt bear?” I kept my tone interested while I tried to wrap my head around the fact that my grandmother was First Nations.

He said, “Moose, elk, bear.”

Remembering that Sandy told me to find out anything I could about his guns, I said, “Do you have a certain gun you like to use?”

“I have a couple, but my favorite is my Remington.223. I shot my first one when I was four.” He sounded pleased with himself. “Bagged my first deer when I was only five.”

“With your dad?”

“I’m a better shot than he was.” His voice turned serious. “And I’ll be a better father.” Before I could ask him what he meant he said, “What was your favorite ice cream when you were a kid?”

The rest of the phone call he asked more questions along those lines: What was my favorite soda? What kind of cookies, chocolate with peanut butter or plain? The questions were so rapid-fire I didn’t have a chance to think up lies. I was getting the feeling that he was a serious junk-food hound. But the only specific thing he revealed about himself was that he loved McDonald’s — Big Macs, mainly. I wondered if that little detail would make Sandy happy or if she’d just be frustrated she couldn’t stake out every McDonald’s herself.

We’d only been on the phone for ten minutes, but I was exhausted, drained from his questions and the effort to gauge his reaction to every answer. Forcing myself to sound polite so I didn’t lose any ground I’d just gained, I said, “John, it’s been great talking to you, but I really have to go to bed.” He sighed. “Get some rest, we’ll talk soon.”

Billy called a few minutes later to tell me John was traveling south on the Yellowhead Highway. They think he was in McBride, a small town between the Rockies and the Cariboo Mountains. The population is under a thousand, but no one noticed anyone who fit John’s description. The police were starting to wonder if he’d frequented these areas before. He might not be turning up on anyone’s radar as a stranger because they know him. Hoping he’d continue south on the same highway, they were making sure all gas stations, truck stops, and stores had his description. When we finally hung up I went straight to bed, but I didn’t sleep. I just stared at the ceiling, wondering if John was on the highway right now, if he was getting closer with every minute that ticked by.

The next day another box arrived. This time I called Sandy and Billy right away. I thought they’d just grab it and go, but they opened it with me there so if John called I’d know what was inside.

This doll was blond.

I wanted to cry at the silken curls, at the little polka-dot tank top and white shorts, wondering which woman’s hair it was, wondering if it had been her pride and joy.

They thought he’d sent the package from Prince George and were going to check all the depots in the area, but I already knew he was smart enough to wear a disguise. After Sandy and Billy left, I went upstairs and checked out the Campsite Killer’s Web site again. The pictures of his first victim showed a woman with black hair. Then I pulled up the photos of his next one. Suzanne Atkinson had straight brown hair — parted in the middle. His third, the woman he killed after Julia escaped, Heather Dawson, smiled broadly in her photo, her heart-shaped face framed by lustrous blond curls. She’d been proud of them.

She was last seen wearing a polka-dot blouse.

I called Billy right away. “You knew he took pieces of their clothing and hair.”

He was quiet for a moment, then said, “We knew, but we didn’t know what he did with them.”

“What else are you holding back?”

“We try to fill you in as much as possible without jeopardizing the investigation.”