Mariah Stewart - Cold Truth

The Bayside Strangler.

She read the rest of the file, then picked up the phone and called information for the listing of the Bowers Inlet Police Department.

“I’d like to speak with Chief Denver,” Regan told the person who answered the phone.

“He’s not in. I can take a message.”

“My name is Regan Landry. I’m a writer-I write true crime… I have some information he might be interested in, in connection with the current homicides there.”

“You have information about the homicides?”

“I have information about some old cases… some notes that were written to my father…”

“I’m not following you.”

“Look, please leave my name and number for Chief Denver and ask him to give me a call. It could be important.” Regan hung up after reciting both the number at the farmhouse and her mobile number.

She went into the kitchen and made herself a pot of coffee, poured a cup, and took it back to the office. She sat and stared at the file she’d left open on her desk.

What did she really have here?

A couple of notes that someone had sent to her father some years ago. A few pages of preliminary investigation Josh had started. Was there more?

She sighed. Damn his lousy record keeping. If, in fact, he’d started numbering the notes as he received them, where were the others? Perhaps he’d handed them over to the police. To the FBI.

Maybe there was another file-or two, or eight, or a dozen. Knowing her father, there could be many more, or none. He could have passed them on. Or not. He could have lost them, thrown them out, or put them in a box and simply forgotten about them as another more interesting project presented itself.

She looked across the room to the long row of wooden file cabinets that she knew were stuffed with files and boxes of notes. In the basement, there were boxes of files she’d helped him move several years ago when he’d run out of room up here for his current works and asked her to empty several drawers and pack them up for storage.

Regan ran a hand through her hair and told herself to slow down. Just because the notes received by her father and the Bowers Inlet chief of police were similar-okay, they were exactly the same-but what did that mean?

Hey, Denver, remember me?

Hey, Landry, remember me?

Not exactly original thoughts. Someone from anyone’s past might say the same thing. And anyone being coy or cautious might structure the notes in the same manner, cutting out letters and gluing them to the paper. What did that prove, anyway?

She opened the file and took out the two sheets of yellow legal paper. At the top of the first sheet, Josh had written, Victims attributed to the Bayside Strangler, June 1979-August 1979. There followed a list of thirteen names. After each name was a date, and the name of a town:

Alicia Coors-June ’79-Bowers Inlet

Carol Jo Hughes-June ’79-Bowers Inlet

Cindy Shelkirk-June ’79-Tilden

Terry List-July ’79-Dewey

Mary Pat Engles-July ’79-Tilden

Heather Snyder-July ’79-Hasboro

Jill Grabowski-July ’79-Killion Point

Mindy Taylor-July ’79-Hasboro

Cathy Cleary-August ’79-Tilden

Allison Shea-August ’79-Dewey

Trina Wilson -August ’79-Killion Point

Lorraine Otto-August ’79-Hasboro

Regina Daley-August ’79-Killion Point

The second sheet had no header and consisted of two columns, one of dates, the other locations, but no names. The dates spanned several years, and the locations varied, state to state. The names of the Bayside Strangler’s victims would be easy enough to trace. Perhaps Chief Denver could verify the names of the Bowers Inlet victims when he called back. If he called back.

Regan sat and stared at the yellow pages for a long time. She compared the two lists her father had printed up. Except for the inclusion of the names on the first list, they were identical in form.

If the first was in fact a list of the Bayside Strangler’s victims-names, dates, and places-what was the significance of the second list?

She studied it, line to line. No matter how long she stared at it, the list made no sense:

– May ’83- Pittsburgh

– February ’86-Charlotte

– August ’86-Corona

– March ’87- Memphis

– January ’88- Turkey

– November ’90- Panama

– November ’91- Croatia

– September ’93- Somalia

– April ’95- Bosnia

– February ’98- Pakistan

– others????-

Since it was in the folder along with the Bayside Strangler notes, could she assume it had something to do with those killings? And if so, what?

She stole a look at the clock. It had been more than an hour since she’d called Chief Denver. She’d have to be patient, give him a little more time.

Regan slid the lists back into the folder, added the two notes that had been addressed to her father, and placed the file on one corner of the desk. She took one more look through the big file and, convinced there was nothing more to be learned from it, replaced it in the cabinet. She lifted out the file behind it and returned to the desk. Settling into the big chair her father had used for more than twenty years, she began to page through the contents, front to back. Once satisfied she’d uncovered nothing that could add to the information in the thin file that sat on the corner of the desk, she put that folder back and took out another. And another.

She’d gone through five file folders by noon, another three by mid-afternoon, when she placed a second call to the Bowers Inlet Police Department. Denver was not available. She left another message.

Stopping only to eat a makeshift meal around seven that evening, she plowed through file drawer after file drawer. At eight-thirty, she stopped to make another pot of coffee, and it occurred to her however many files remained in the office, there were three times as many in the basement, and God only knew what Josh might have stashed in the attic.

So far she’d found nothing that referred to the list her father had handprinted with dates and places, nor had she found any other letters that may have been sent by the Bayside Strangler. Perhaps Josh had turned them over to someone in law enforcement after all.

But he would have kept copies, she reminded herself, if he’d planned on writing a book on the subject. He would have kept copies of all the correspondence, regardless. He’d done that before, she knew. Throughout the day she’d come across several such files. But where were the files that would relate back to the list? They had to be there. It was a matter of finding the right drawers. Or the right boxes.

As Regan studied the mysterious list for perhaps the tenth time, the thought occurred to her that she could have already bypassed something that might be a clue to the lists’ meaning.

How will I find it if I don’t know what IT is?

Somewhat disheartened by the thought, but nonetheless determined, Regan read on through the night. Her father had always relied upon his instincts in times like this, she reminded herself. Perhaps it was time to put her own instincts to the test.

He stood upon the wooden boardwalk at the top of the dune and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with as much of the bay as he could draw in with one breath. This, more than anything, this scent, meant he was home.

With one hand at his forehead acting as shade, he scanned the horizon. Far into the bay, fishing boats headed to the Atlantic. The sun hung over the water like a red-hot ball. The narrow beach was littered with the remains of a dozen horseshoe crabs and hanks of seaweed. The scents all blended together, and if he closed his eyes, he’d be a kid again, searching the sand for treasure.