Josh Lanyon - The Mermaid Murders

“You don’t have a computer program for inventory control?”

“We’ve been talking about it, but we’re a small department and those programs are pretty expensive.”

“Sure,” Jason said. “It’s the same everywhere. And who has access to the property room?”

She looked confused. “Any officer who needs access.”

“Is it procedure to return or purge adjudicated items?”

“Adjudicated? Oh! Well, it depends. We try to return valuable property when we can. We don’t really have a firm policy in place. Of course, you’re really asking about the physical evidence collected during the Huntsman case. That’s all upstairs. We won’t ever dispose of that. I think we all feel it would be a kind of…sacrilege.”

“Yes,” Jason said. “Can I get the keys to the property room?”

“Of course.” She opened a drawer and handed him a key on a ring. It was that easy. “We may not be computerized, but everything is organized and labeled. Older cases in the back, new cases in the front. Cases waiting to go to trial on the metal shelf to your left when you walk in.”

“Thank you.”

He took the stairs fast. He was not hiding what he was up to—and if he had been, hiding in plain sight would be the best way to go—but he was conscious that it was probably better to fly under the radar on this. He hadn’t needed Kennedy to tell him that much.

Jason reached the second floor and walked quietly down the empty hallway.

He was still very angry, his heart pounding hard, his hands a bit unsteady as he let himself into the property room, closed the door, and turned on the light.

If Kennedy had not been such a complete bastard, if he hadn’t threatened him, Jason probably would have waited till he got back to Kingsfield. He wouldn’t have liked it, would have continued to think Kennedy was paranoid, would have given Kennedy an earful, but he wouldn’t have deliberately launched himself on a collision course.

If Kennedy thought he was going to break Jason career-wise, he was in for a rude awakening. And if he was talking about physical assault, well, bring it on, old man. Bring it .

He needed to stop thinking about Kennedy and focus on the job at hand.

He studied the crowded shelves, boxes neatly labeled with case numbers and the last names of the victims. He had to give Kingsfield PD—or maybe Officer Courtney—credit. This was an exceptionally clean and well-organized property room, and Jason had been in a lot of property rooms over the years.

He moved down the aisle of shelves, scanning labels.

There it was. Corrigan .

He swallowed. Lifted the box gently down. He carried it to the table in the front.

If he was correct, if the charm he had found with Candy had originally belonged to Honey, someone had removed it from the property room. And even while security measures here were pretty lame, the cast of actors was relatively small.

Jason lifted the lid off the box.

The first thing he saw was Honey’s pink sweater, and that initial glimpse seemed to suck the air right out of his lungs. For an instant it was as though she stood right in front of him. He had not expected to remember…so much. Or be so moved by the memories. It took him a second or two to steel himself. He went swiftly, carefully, through the items one by one: sweater, scuffed sneakers, a copy of The Real Freshman Handbook , a Big Gulp cup, a yellow beach towel with purple sea horses.

Her swimsuit with her blood and other DNA evidence would be stored at State Police evidentiary lockup.

He tried not to think about what he was doing, tried not to remember.

But…

She had been pretty. Not beautiful, but cute. Rosy-cheeked, a little chubby, shorn golden curls, and big blue eyes. “Dancing eyes” was book talk, but yes, Honey’s eyes had sparkled with bright interest and lively curiosity.

They had laughed a lot. Told each other everything—almost everything.

All at once he was back there, back at Holyoke Pond…the smell of suntan oil and grass and water. Honey’s voice, both their voices—young and confident—ringing out across the water, bouncing back from the dark trees. He could see them sitting on their beach towels, talking, as though he was observing them from the woods.

Which was how Martin Pink had watched them.

“ Maybe Boyd will ask you to the dance.”

Honey had said archly, “Me? Maybe you should ask Boyd.”

“ Oh yeah, right! You think that Neanderthal can dance?” He had flushed hotly, laughing and looking away. Inside he had not been laughing. Inside he had been embarrassed and hopeful and longing. Young love was really hell. Especially when it was unreciprocated. And his was hopeless. He had known that much even then.

Honey had teased, “Oh, but he’s good enough for me!”

He had glanced sideways, caught her unguarded gaze, and realized with a pang that he was not the only one suffering—longing for what was never going to be.

He had looked away quickly, and both had pretended they had not seen too much.

No . No, this was not the time for remembrance. He could not afford to feel this right now.

Jason lifted out the last item in the box. An old first-aid kit.

He opened it.

For a minute he mistook a stray cotton ball for what he was looking for, and he felt a zap of…he wasn’t sure if it was relief or alarm.

In the end it didn’t matter. This white puff would change the course of no one’s life.

He went back and checked through every item again.

Nothing.

Her keys were there. The charm was not on the ring.

There was a knocking sensation in his stomach. He felt almost light-headed. Even though this was what he had been looking for—this absence of something that should be there—it was still a shock. Still unbelievable.

The mermaid charm was gone.

He sank down on the long table and tried to think.

Kennedy was right. They could not afford to make any mistakes at this juncture. Jason could not afford to make any mistakes. Having gone against Kennedy, and with so much at stake, he could not get anything wrong.

So think .

Boxner had access to the evidence room and to all the original case files. He was clearly not the only member of Kingsfield PD who had access, though. However, he was the only member who visited Rebecca’s home earlier in the evening.

Which, as Kennedy had pointed out numerous times, did not in itself mean anything. It was possible that Boxner could have arranged to meet Rebecca later. But there was absolutely no proof that such a thing had happened.

It was all circumstantial. Which was more than they had on anyone else at the moment.

What bothered Jason most was that none of this addressed the big problem of why. Why would Boxner kill Rebecca Madigan?

Why abduct Candy Davies?

Okay, that he could answer. To make it look like Rebecca’s murder was part of that larger and earlier pattern. Candy’s abduction helped foster the illusion that the Huntsman was back.

Except…if someone really wanted to make it look like the Huntsman was back, Candy should have been killed too.

So the real question was why had Candy not been killed?

No. Skip that for a second. If he was right about Candy’s abduction simply being smokescreen…it brought him full circle back to why kill Rebecca ?

As much as Jason wanted Boxner for this, he knew Kennedy was right about Boxner not fitting the profile—any profile—of a serial killer. Asshole Kennedy might be, but he did know his stuff.

Therefore Rebecca’s was not the first death in a new series of copycat slayings.

Rebecca’s homicide was a unique and separate crime.