Lisa Gardner - Say Goodbye

“Tried that. No unidentified female bodies have been found lately.”

She gave him a look. “Seems to shoot down your theory right there. If a predator was preying on prostitutes, he’d be disposing of the bodies somewhere. In Dumpsters, back alleys, along the interstate. Something would’ve turned up.”

Sal shrugged. “How many of Ted Bundy’s victims are still undiscovered? He favored rolling them down ravines. Let’s face it, this state has a lot of ravines. And chicken farms, and marshlands, and miles and miles of nothing at all. You wanna hide a body, Georgia is the place to do it. Or,” he conceded, “maybe the guy crosses state lines. It’s always a possibility, but you’d know better than me.”

Kimberly could already hear the skepticism in his voice. After all, if a subject was picking up prostitutes in Georgia and killing them in Louisiana, then it definitely would be a federal case and Sal didn’t think this was a feebie case. He thought it was his case, so for that reason alone, the subject could only be operating inside Georgia lines.

Kimberly studied him. She was doing some math in her head and it wasn’t working out in his favor. “Trevor said they picked up Delilah shortly after one. But I didn’t get called until after three. Anything you want to add to that timeline, Special Agent?”

Sal didn’t bother to appear repentant. He simply shot her a grin. “Heard you were smart.”

“Violent, too. Don’t let the belly fool you.”

His grin broadened. “Okay, sure, so maybe I took a shot at her.”

“Mmmm-hmmm.”

“If it’s any consolation, little Miss Muffet wouldn’t bite. Was adamant from the moment the police picked her up that she would speak with you and only you.”

“Liked her tattoos, did you?”

“How do you know her?” he asked curiously. “Drug activity? Meth? Seems kind of low level to be narc’ing for a fed.”

“You never know where the good information might come from.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why this level of intensity, Sal? Poaching an informant, rousing a fed in the middle of the night. From the sound of it, you don’t even have a case, yet you’re jumping through a lot of hoops to talk to one inked-up hooker.”

Sal didn’t answer her. His gaze had gone out the window. He wasn’t smiling anymore, and the dark look on his face had probably scared an informant or two.

“I got a package,” he said curtly. “Fourteen months ago. No name on it, no note in it. Just three Georgia-issued driver’s licenses stuffed in a plain white envelope and placed beneath the windshield wiper of my car. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Driver’s licenses? You talking forgeries or the real deal?”

“Real deal. I have valid photo IDs for Bonita Breen, Mary Back, and Etta Mae Reynolds. White females, roughly twenty years of age, addresses from the greater Atlanta area. I did some digging and guess what?”

“They’re all missing hookers.”

“They’re all working girls,” he fine-tuned, “who haven’t been spotted in months. Now, according to the grapevine, Mary headed for Texas, while Etta Mae ran off with some bartender. I’ve issued BOLOs for both, without any hits. So in my world, that makes them missing, though it’s possible my supe has other ideas on the subject.”

Kimberly had to smile. She might know something about disagreeing with a superior. These things happened.

“Then,” Sal continued, “three months ago, same thing. I come out to my car and discover a new envelope, with three new licenses: Beth Hunnicutt, Nicole Evans, and Cyndie Rodriguez. Except this time I get lucky. Beth Hunnicutt has been declared missing, by her roommate, Nicole Evans .”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute. The same Nicole Evans whose driver’s license is in the envelope?”

“The very same. According to the missing persons file, Hunnicutt was last seen heading out for a ‘big job,’ by her roommate Evans. Furthermore, Evans asserted that Hunnicutt never would have taken off without grabbing her stereo equipment and collection of CDs from their apartment. Of course, when I tried to follow up with Evans, I discovered that she also hadn’t been seen in months, and in fact, the third roommate, Cyndie Rodriguez, had disappeared, as well. Three more IDs, three more missing girls.”

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“So says you, so says me. Brass, on the other hand…”

“Six missing girls and you can’t make a case?” she asked in shock.

“No evidence of foul play. And technically speaking, of my six names, only one has been declared missing. The others are simply ‘unaccounted for.’ According to the bureaucrats we got bigger fish to fry-you know, the growing meth problem, gangland shootings, new requirements for Homeland Security, yada, yada, yada.”

Kimberly sighed. She’d like to say she’d never heard of such garbage, but she would be lying. Bureaucrats ran the world, even in law enforcement.

“Back to the envelope,” she mused. “Someone is making the effort to outreach not once, but twice, to the police. That’s something.”

“Envelope was unsealed and yielded no physical evidence. So for kicks, I ran it by a shrink friend who sometimes consults for the department on cold cases. His first thought was sure-a lot of killers like the spotlight just as much as celebrities, and are driven to reach out to local cops or press. The fact the package contained driver’s licenses interested him, as the BTK guy out of Kansas liked to mail in driver’s licenses of his victims to the press. So maybe a classic copycat element-hey, look how famous that schmuck is, I can do that!

“Problem is, the predators who make the effort generally crave recognition. It’s about bragging, gamesmanship, and arrogance. Meaning there should be a note, poem, follow-up phone call, something. This…In Jimmy’s own words, it’s like mailing out a party invite without any directions on where or how to play. His best guess: The stash came from a third party.”

“Third party?” Kimberly asked incredulously. “Like who, the guy’s cleaning lady?”

“Think of it this way: A wife cleans out her husband’s sock drawer. Comes across a stack of photo IDs. Now, there can’t be any good reason for her husband to have the driver’s licenses of three young women. Then again, she’s afraid to confront him with it. So she sticks the plastic in an envelope, and discreetly passes it to the first cop she sees. Eases her conscience while keeping her distance.”

“Until she comes across three more driver’s licenses,” Kimberly said drily.

“Hey, maybe the guy needed his underwear drawer organized as well.”

Kimberly arched a brow, turning the matter over in her head. The whole scenario bothered her on so many levels she didn’t know where to begin. Six missing girls, only one of whom could be considered missing. No bodies or other evidence of foul play, but two care packages that could be considered to contain “trophies” from a serial predator. Except maybe the envelopes didn’t come from the unidentified subject, but a companion of the UNSUB who was too scared to contact police directly but savvy enough to deliver the licenses in a manner that left behind absolutely, positively no physical evidence.

Which, she supposed, brought them to Delilah Rose, a young prostitute pinched just this evening, claiming to have evidence about another missing hooker and adamant about speaking only with Kimberly.

Delilah troubled her. Kimberly didn’t like the impression that the girl had homed in on her, all because of something she’d once seen on TV. The Eco-Killer had been a long time ago. And while the press had made out Kimberly to be a hero, she hadn’t gotten to all the girls in time.