Mariah Stewart - Cold Truth

“Why do you suppose they reached out to him?”

“I think they thought he’d make them famous. Write a book about them, too. The press had picked up on the story, about my dad getting all this mail, and I guess everyone wanted their fifteen minutes. It did die down after a few years, but from time to time he still heard from inmates.” She smiled wryly. “Sometimes they wrote just to tell him how wrong he was about something or other he’d written. That’s how he came into contact with Curtis Channing, the serial killer who, ultimately, was responsible for his death.”

“The killer who put your dad’s name on the hit list that he passed on to someone else.”

“Archer Lowell. The man who shot my father.”

“And you’re certain-you are positive-that your father saved all this correspondence?”

“In one place or another. I’d bet on it.”

“Right. It all comes back to finding the right box.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“We can scour the boxes while we wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“For someone to respond to my inquiries. I sent a lot of emails and made a lot of phone calls yesterday to my office, as well as to several local police departments, state law enforcement agencies, whomever would have investigated these other homicides, asking them to fax over copies of their investigative reports.”

“All forty victims plus the four from Dad’s list?”

“Might as well take a look at the big picture. To that end, I have a bunch of bright yellow pins. We’ll use those to mark those other forty victims I tracked down on the computer.”

“Why segregate those?”

“Because we still have to put that list in order of date and integrate them into a master list. As we set up files on each of those, and confirm that they’re most likely victims of the same killer, we’ll exchange the yellow pin for a red one.”

“And when we have all red pins, we’ll have a complete list.”

“Until others come out of the woodwork.”

“Let’s take our coffee into the office and check that fax machine. I thought I heard it ring earlier.” Regan reached for the remote, and was about to turn off the television. “That’s that police chief from one of those bay towns…”

She increased the volume.

“… but you’ll have to ask the Hasboro Police Department for that information,” he was saying.

“Can you give us any information on the condition of the woman who was attacked last night? Has she been able to identify the man who attacked her?”

“I really can’t give you any information, Heather. This is an ongoing investigation…”

“But you can confirm that this woman did survive the attack?”

“One of the young women who was attacked over the weekend did survive. That’s all I want to say at this time.”

“Chief Denver, Bowers Inlet Police Department, we thank you for your time.” The camera switched back to the morning host. “We’ll be right back.”

“There’s been another one. Another murder in Bowers Inlet.” Regan frowned.

“At least one, apparently. Did you hear him refer to another police department? Started with an H.”

“I didn’t catch the name.”

“The Bureau sent an agent to Bowers to work with their department after the first four murders. Let me give him a call, see what’s going on.”

“While you do that, I think I’ll move all this paperwork of yours into the office. There’s some plywood in the barn, we can bring a piece in and pin the map on it, stand it up in front of the bookcases.”

She gathered up the files on the kitchen table and took them down the hall to the office. After setting the papers on the large desk, she raised the shade on the window and let the morning in.

“I had to leave voice mail for Rick. In the meantime, how about you show me where the plywood is?”

“It’s right over there, in the barn.” She pointed out the window, then opened the top desk drawer and took out a key, which she handed to him. “This is for the main door.”

“You’re not coming?”

She hesitated. “I’ll stay here and see if I can put this in order. Looks like someone was eager to share.” She pointed to the fax machine, where a pile of paper overflowed the receive tray. The red light blinked furiously, indicating it was out of paper and had more pages to transmit.

“Okay. I can go right out the back door?”

She nodded and reloaded the paper tray, then hit the Resume button. Within seconds, the fax began to print again. Page after page after page.

Regan looked out the window and watched Mitch stride across the wide drive to the barn. He unlocked the door easily and went inside. Less than five minutes later, he was on his way back, holding a large piece of plywood over his head.

“There’s a lot of good wood in there,” Mitch was saying as he came into the room. He lowered the wood and leaned it against the bookcase. “And a lot of caution tape. I’m sorry, Regan. I knew about what happened to your dad there, and I just wasn’t thinking.”

She nodded. “It’s okay. The tape is still in there?”

“Yes. Haven’t you…?”

“No. I haven’t been in there since the day he was shot. I just can’t bring myself to go in.” She smiled sadly. “It must sound silly to you.”

“Not at all. In a way, I’m surprised that you’re living here.”

“I hadn’t intended to. I came back to clean out my dad’s things, pack up my personal belongings, family things I wanted to keep, then have the property sold. I hadn’t planned on staying. But I saw the story about the women being murdered at the shore, and it reminded me of those notes I found…”

“And you couldn’t walk away from the story.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think I can. Not until all of this is resolved.”

“Well, let’s see if we can make some progress here today, so you can get on with your life. Toss me that container of tacks, would you, please? Let’s get the map up.”

“You have a ton of faxes here,” she told him as they secured the map onto the plywood backing.

“That was fast.” He leaned the map against the bookshelf and reached for the pile of paper she handed to him. He leafed through, reading aloud, “Pennsylvania State Police. Alabama… Texas… New Mexico… and the Georgia Bureau of Investigation sure has a lot to say.”

He skimmed the fax messages that accompanied the various reports.

“ Leary, Georgia. Colquitt. Ideal…” He shook his head. “Apparently they’re still going through their records.”

“And there are more faxes coming through.” She pointed to the machine, where sheet after sheet slid into the tray.

“Let’s put these in order by date so we have a chronological- That’s my phone.”

He pulled the ringing phone from his pants pocket and answered it, then wandered to the window and looked out while he listened.

“I think we need to have a sit-down-and-share, Cisco,” he said after several moments. “There or here, doesn’t matter… Okay, sure, I understand. I can be there in…”

Mitch looked at Regan and asked, “How far is it from here to the beach?”

“ New Jersey has a whole coast made up of beaches.”

“Bowers Inlet.”

“Maybe an hour and a half. Depending on which way you go.”

“You know a shortcut?”

“Sure. I’m a Jersey girl. We never take the main roads.”

“Have lunch waiting for me,” Mitch said into his phone. “I’ll be there before noon.”

He folded the phone and slipped it back into his pocket.

“What’s going on in Bowers Inlet?” she asked.

“Seems the latest victim-the one the chief of police was talking about on TV?-is the cousin of the only detective in Bowers Inlet.”