Deeper Than the Dead

36

Dawn was a pale sliver of color on the eastern horizon when Mendez pulled into Gordon Sells’s salvage yard. Despite the hour, the place was a hive of activity.

Crime scene teams from two counties and the state Bureau of Forensic Sciences were working over the property. Besides the trailer house, the place was cluttered with garages and sheds half falling down—all packed with machinery, parts, cars, and junk of all varieties. Behind the salvage business was a dilapidated barn and a pen full of twenty to thirty hogs. As if the place wasn’t disgusting enough to begin with.

Mendez went on in search of Dixon. In an hour the main investigative team would meet and they would be briefed as to what had been found so far during the search.

He walked down the field of cars, the dew-damp grass soaking his shoes and wetting the hem of his pants. A crowd had gathered at the end of the first rows. Deputies, people in street clothes, forty or fifty volunteers in search and rescue windbreakers, all milled around, waiting for something to happen.

Photographers and camera crews from half a dozen television stations recorded the event while on-air reporters stood in front of blinding portable lights relating the latest to viewers of the early morning news programs in LA and Santa Barbara and who-knew-where.

Jane Thomas and Steve Morgan stood in the flood of harsh light with Petal the pit bull sitting at Jane’s feet. Dixon stood behind the camera crew with his arms crossed over his chest. Mendez stepped up beside him.

“. . . as you can see,” Jane Thomas was saying to the blonde with the microphone, “a ground search has been organized and will be getting under way shortly. I encourage any of your viewers who might be able to join the search. Karly Vickers has been missing now for an entire week. It’s imperative that we do all we can to find her.”

“And I understand your center has posted a reward,” the blonde said.

“Yes, the Thomas Centers for Women have established a reward of ten thousand dollars for information leading to Karly’s recovery and to the conviction of the person who took her.”

“A tip line has been set up . . .”

“How’s she holding up?” Mendez asked quietly.

“She feels better doing something,” Dixon said. “She’s got the women at the center helping with the hotline, running off posters, helping organize food and beverages for the searchers.”

The reporter introduced Steve Morgan. He spoke about the importance of the Thomas Center to the community, and about the professionals—like himself—who donated their time and services to the center.

“I hope to God they don’t find a body out there,” Dixon said.

“The odds of finding this girl alive are getting longer by the day,” Mendez said.

“It’s not impossible. Maybe Sells—if Sells is our man—decided he had to lay low for a while and he’s got her stashed. Maybe he was enjoying this girl more than the other. Maybe he decided to keep her.”

None of that seemed very likely to Mendez but he kept that to himself for now.

“Sells hasn’t said anything yet?” Dixon asked.

“He told me to go fuck myself, but that’s not what you wanted to hear.”

“What a nightmare,” Dixon said. “I moved up here to get away from this kind of craziness.”

“Bad is everywhere, boss.”

The sky was brightening enough to see beyond the lights. The field beyond the cars was tinted green from rain they had had the week before, and studded with the big spreading oak trees the area was known for. It was a pretty place, a place where people might want to have a picnic, not to search for a corpse.

“Did you talk to Farman?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“How did that go?”

“About how you’d think,” Dixon said. “I assigned him to desk duty. He’s not a happy camper. But I didn’t have a choice. I can’t have any hint of impropriety in this investigation. When these cases go to trial, I’m not going to have some defense attorney get up and point out that we had a potential suspect working the investigation.”

“Are we supposed to consider him a suspect?”

“No, of course not.”

“His wife has a connection to the Thomas Center.”

Dixon looked at him. “How?”

“She’s a secretary at Quinn, Morgan.”

Dixon frowned darkly. “I asked him about the ticket he wrote Karly Vickers. He says he didn’t remember her, which is why he didn’t say anything about it.”

“He didn’t remember stopping a woman that we’re now looking for?” Mendez said. “We’ve all been looking at her picture for two days. We’re looking for a ten-year-old gold Chevy Nova. He stopped that car with that woman in it, and he didn’t remember?”

Dixon sighed and rubbed his temples. “I know. It’s lame. There’s no reason he shouldn’t have mentioned it, though. Frank writes half a dozen citations every day. That’s part of his job.”

“What did he stop her for?”

“He stopped her for doing twenty-nine in a twenty-five zone.”

“What an ass,” Mendez said. But that was just like Farman—by the book, no mercy. “What time did he write the ticket?”

“Fifteen thirty-eight.”

“Before her dental appointment. That’s good.”

On their time line, Farman wouldn’t be listed as the last person to have seen the woman. Not that it should have mattered. Farman had a clean record. There was no reason for anyone to look at him as a suspect. The fact that his son had been in possession of Lisa Warwick’s finger was the complicating factor.

Any defense attorney worth his salt would use that to plant the seeds of reasonable doubt. What if the kid didn’t pick up the finger at the scene? What if he found it at home hidden among his father’s things?

Defense attorneys loved nothing better than trying to make cops look dirty. They would find someone who had overheard Frank make a derogatory remark about women—not that difficult to do, him being the chauvinist he was. They would look at every traffic citation he had ever written and manufacture a pattern of harassment against women. They would drag in Anne Navarre and get her to say she believed Frank beat his kid, that he had a volatile temper.

Mendez could see Frank spanking his son for skipping school—and who was to say that was so wrong? Mendez had suffered a couple of good strappings as a boy bent on mischief, and he had straightened up because of it. And Farman could certainly come across as a bully, but brutally murder a woman? Mr. Law Enforcement? No.

Dixon sighed and shook his head. “Maybe Sells will confess today.”

And maybe pigs will fly, Mendez thought, as he walked back to his car, passing the hog lot.

An hour later the team of six detectives and Vince Leone met in the conference room that had now been fully converted into their war room. Photographs had been moved from the smaller bulletin board and tacked up on a freestanding corkboard at one end of the room. A time line had been drawn out on the big white board.

Mendez took a marker and added to the line for the day Karly Vickers disappeared: 15:38 traffic ticket issued by F. Farman.

He added to the line for Thursday: L. Warwick index finger in possession of D. Farman.

Leone came over, tapped a finger on the line about the traffic citation, and raised his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Mendez said. He looked his mentor over. “You look good today. You’ve got some color.”

Vince grinned. “I had a lovely evening, thanks for asking.”

“I didn’t ask,” Mendez said, cranky. “Spare me the details, please.”

“The food was excellent. Miss Navarre was a lovely dinner companion. We talked about her students. I walked her to her car, then I took a walk back down the alley behind the dentist’s office.”

Mendez chose to skip past the date part and jump right back into the case. “Yeah? What did you find?”

“The vacant building next door has a big roll-up garage door, like you could back a truck through. Could be a good place to stash a victim say from five until dark.”

“I don’t see the dentist as a suspect,” Mendez said. “The only thing we have on him is that he saw Vickers late in the day. Anybody could have grabbed the girl in the alley. And Sells had the cars.”

“What does your gut tell you about Gordon Sells?”

Mendez rolled his shoulders, as if physically uncomfortable defending the Sells theory. “There’s definitely something wrong about the guy. But his record is as a pedophile. These victims are grown women.”

Leone nodded, satisfied. “And back to your dentist: Yes, anyone could have snatched the young lady in that alley. And anyone could have stashed her in that empty building. There’s a padlock on the door, but it doesn’t work. But if she was a specific target, then her abductor has to be someone who knew she had that appointment.”

Mendez thought about it. Karly Vickers on her way to the dentist, Farman pulls her over. Why is she going so fast, he asks her. She tells him she’s on her way to a dentist appointment . . . Obviously, Crane knew where she would be, and people from the center, and people from the hair salon . . .

Dixon came in then and briefed the group regarding Frank Farman’s necessary departure from the case. No one seemed to know what to say.

“He happened to make a traffic stop the day Karly Vickers disappeared,” Dixon said. “He filed the citation, in no way tried to conceal that, and the time noted was fifteen thirty-eight. More than an hour before Ms. Vickers went missing.”

“His kid was running around with a dead woman’s finger in his pocket,” Detective Hamilton said. “That’s fucking screwed up.”

“The boy has some behavioral issues,” Dixon conceded.

“Deputy Farman has been put on administrative duty until further notice. Meanwhile, we have a legitimate suspect. Let’s concentrate on Gordon Sells.”

“Has the search of his property turned up anything yet?” Mendez asked.

“So far, nothing to connect him directly to any of the victims.” Dixon said. “The trailer is a hazardous waste dump of biological material. It’ll take months to process the samples.”

“He hasn’t said anything to incriminate himself,” Mendez said. “He’s uncooperative, to say the least.”

“How long did you interview him last night?” Vince asked.

“Six hours. Hicks and I took turns.”

“And he hasn’t asked for an attorney?”

“No,” Hicks said. “He doesn’t trust public defenders. He claims the last one he had sold him down the river.”

“Maybe he’s right,” Vince said. “He’s a pedophile. How any decent person can defend a turd like that is beyond me.”

“What decent person?” Detective Trammell asked. “I thought we were talking about lawyers.”

They all got a laugh out of that. Nothing like slamming lawyers to lighten the mood for a bunch of cops.

“He did time,” Vince said. “What was the charge?”

“He was accused of abusing three different twelve-year-old girls, but only one case went to trial. Sells pled out on lewd acts on a minor and possession of child pornography,” Mendez said. “The deal was for eight-to-twelve. He did every day of it. The mother of the victim came to every parole hearing.”

“Was he violent?” Leone asked. “Did he use a weapon?”

“Each time he threatened his victim with a knife.”

“No actual rape?”

“Oral sex was his thing, but he’s had twelve years to sit and think about it.”

“Twelve years of taking it up the ass from every bubba in the joint probably,” Trammell said. “That’s a lot of motivation for revenge against women.”

“That’s true,” Vince said. “But guys like Sells don’t usually change targets. He was locked in on twelve-year-old girls long before he got put away—probably since his teens. His sexual attraction is to pubescent girls he can easily manipulate and intimidate. Molesting children is generally an unsophisticated crime.”

“You don’t think he’s our guy?” Dixon said, annoyed.

“From what you’ve told me, he doesn’t fit the profile. I think you’re looking for a white male in his midthirties, educated, intelligent, methodical. I think he holds a position of respect or authority, or these women knew him personally. So far it looks like the victims just vanished, no commotion, no witnesses. That suggests they went with him willingly. They didn’t think he posed a threat.”

“Or he incapacitated them quickly and efficiently,” Dixon countered. “He stalked them to a secluded location and grabbed them. No witnesses.”

“That’s possible,” Vince conceded. “But with the way he staged Lisa Warwick’s body in the woods, this killer is looking for attention. He wants an audience. He wants credit for his work. He’s got an ego. He’s liable to try to insinuate himself into the search for Karly Vickers, attend the funeral of Lisa Warwick. That kind of involvement will be part of the power trip for him.

“With the exception of the missing finger, everything about the Warwick dump site was neat and tidy. The cutting wounds on the body were laid out in a specific pattern. Your victim number one—Paulson—had similar deliberate marks on the body. But you’re telling me Gordon Sells isn’t organized in any way. He lives in a hovel, out in the country, away from people, not attracting attention.”

“He had both women’s cars in his possession,” Dixon said.

He looked like he was feeling persecuted, Mendez thought. No doubt he was as exhausted as everyone else, maybe more so considering his personal connection to Jane Thomas. She had to be hammering on him to solve the case. Mendez could see Leone taking the same reading on his boss.

Vince held his hands up. “Hey, Sheriff, I appreciate your position here. You’re under a lot of pressure, and you’ve got a bird in the hand with Sells. But it’s not my job to agree with you. I’m no help as a yes man.

“I’m telling you what I know based on my experiences,” he said. “That doesn’t mean this guy couldn’t be the exception to the rule. I’m just telling you what I know. You’ve got him with the cars. Hold him. But I would strongly advise you to continue to develop other possible suspects.”

Dixon sighed and nodded and rubbed his hands over his face. “Does anybody else have anything?”

“Lisa Warwick’s vacation plans didn’t turn up anything,” Hamilton said. “But her phone records show a lot of calls to the law offices of Quinn, Morgan and Associates. Two calls the day she disappeared.”

“She volunteered as a court advocate to women from the center,” Mendez said. “Morgan handles most of the family court cases. I think she might have had a thing for him. He’s tougher to read. I haven’t spoken to his wife yet.”

“Steve Morgan is as straight an arrow as they come,” Dixon said.

“He’s the guy in the photograph?” Trammell asked.

“Yeah,” Mendez said.

“I finally talked to the next-door neighbor last night,” Trammell went on. “Nosey old bat. She said she saw a man coming and going from Lisa Warwick’s house from time to time at odd hours, late at night. She—the neighbor—is up at odd hours on account of her sciatica, she told me. I showed her the photo. She couldn’t swear he was the guy, because it was always dark, but she thought it could be. Right height, right build.”

“When was the last time she saw him?” Mendez asked.

“She wasn’t sure—I think she drinks for that sciatica—but she thought it was maybe the night before Warwick went missing.”

Dixon swore under his breath. “Tony, talk to Morgan again.”

“We’ve got the maintenance man from the Thomas Center in,” Hicks said. “He denies any connection to the stolen cars or to the women, but Miss Vickers’s friend told us he had his eye on Karly and she didn’t like it.”

“He did five in Wasco for stealing cars—”

“That’s where Gordon Sells was,” Mendez said.

“Lyle claims he didn’t know Sells there, but he has been to Sells’s junkyard.”

“And Lyle had charges on him for abusing a girlfriend?” Dixon asked.

“Six months’ worth.”

“He’s still here?” Dixon asked.

“Holding him on a bench warrant for outstanding traffic violations. But unless we come up with his prints in one of those cars, we’ve got nothing to charge him with. He can pay his fines and go.”

“Talk to him again,” Dixon said. “If nothing turns up, kick him loose. Hamilton and Stuart, I want you to canvass the businesses around Peter Crane’s dental office. So far, that’s still the last place anybody saw Karly Vickers. Trammell and Eaton, knock on every door within half a mile of Gordon Sells’s place.”

Mendez turned to Leone. “You coming with me? I’m stopping at the elementary school to talk to the Crane boy and Wendy Morgan to see if they know how the Farman kid got that finger.”

“No,” Vince said. “I have to make a call to Quantico. But do give my regards to Miss Navarre,” he added with a smug smile.

“Yeah,” Mendez said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll get right on that.”