Her Final Confession

Chapter Fifty-Two

PRESENT DAY

Denton, Pennsylvania

It was a call from Noah that woke her. Josie was facedown in Trinity’s bed, drool spilling out of her mouth, when the incessant ringing of her cell phone yanked her from the warm clutches of sleep. Bleary-eyed, she fumbled for the phone on Trinity’s nightstand. She saw Noah’s name on the screen and pressed answer, scratching out a hello.

“Are you still in New York?” Noah asked.

Josie turned her head and looked at Trinity’s bedside clock. “Shit,” she said. “I have to catch the train in an hour.”

“Chitwood is asking questions,” Noah said. “I told him you had a family issue and had to take a personal day.”

“Instead of telling him I was in New York City as part of the Omar investigation?” Josie said.

“You know he wouldn’t have approved it. The press are on him about the Wilkins homicide. He called in some favors to have the DNA analysis expedited.”

Josie sat up and threw her legs over the side of the bed. “That’s a good thing. We need to have it run through the federal database when it comes back. Listen, I’ll be back in time for lunch, okay? I’ve got a lot to tell you, but I have to get ready to catch this train.”

“Of course. Also, I got the warrant out to the phone provider to see what we can find out about the burner phone that Omar was calling in the last two weeks. They said it will take five to seven days, unfortunately. The good news is that we got Omar’s text messages from the last two weeks.”

A burst of energy shot through her. “What do they say?”

Noah sighed. “Nothing conclusive. You can look at them when you get back.”

The energy gave way to disappointment. “Can you send them to me as a PDF? I can read them on the train.”

“Sure. I’ll get them over in a few minutes.”

They hung up, and Josie readied herself for the day in record time, in spite of her exhaustion. She was on the curb in front of Trinity’s building with her suitcase in tow a half hour later. She hailed a cab, and during the drive to Penn Station, she called Jack Starkey.

He answered sounding as though he had stayed up all night drinking. His hello was somewhat slurred. “Quinn?” he said as if he didn’t believe it was her.

“Yeah,” Josie said. “Listen, I’m sorry to bother you again, but I had a couple of questions.”

There was silence. Then he said, “Sure, okay, but I have a question for you first.”

“Okay,” Josie said. “Go ahead.”

Hostility filled his voice. “What are you playing at?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I did some internet research last night. You didn’t tell me Gretchen was arrested for that kid’s murder. Why the hell not? What’s going on down there in central Pennsylvania?”

Josie sighed. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think it was relevant at the time.”

“Not relevant?” he boomed.

“Is there something you’re holding back that you want to tell me now that you know Gretchen is being charged with murder?”

“What? No. No, it’s not like that. I told you what I know.”

“Did you know that Amy and Justin Neal had a son?”

“A son? No, no. They didn’t have kids.”

“Except they did,” Josie said. “A little boy. He was in foster care for years before they finally gave him up for adoption to the couple fostering him.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“I have my sources,” Josie said. “Did you know the Neals had criminal records?”

“Yeah, yeah, I knew that,” he replied, his voice edged with irritation. “What’s this got to do with anything?”

“What if the item that the Strangler took from the Neal scene was a photo of their son?”

“Not possible.”

“Why not? Who did the walk-through after their murder?”

“It was—it was a coworker. Someone Justin worked with.”

The cab jerked to a halt a block from Penn Station. Josie handed the driver a tip, mouthed a thank you, and got out, dragging her bag along. To Starkey, she said, “A coworker? Not a parent or sibling? Not even a friend?”

“From what I remember they didn’t have anyone. Everyone in their lives had written them off ’cause of all the drug problems,” Starkey said. “I think a friend came through after the funerals and had a look, but she said nothing was missing.”

“So it’s possible a photo could have been taken and no one would know,” Josie pressed.

More silence. Finally, he said, “I guess so, yeah. You done?”

“No,” Josie said icily. “I’m not. You also said when Devil’s Blade dumped Gretchen in front of the Seattle ATF headquarters that she was ‘cut up’. What did you mean?”

“What do you think I meant? I meant they sliced her up.”

Josie passed through the doors of Penn Station, moving along with the throngs of people, and pressed the phone harder against her ear to hear Starkey over the din. “Where did they slice her up?”

“What kind of question is that?” Now he was sounding like an angry drunk, but Josie pressed forward.

“Where on her body, Starkey? She must have had cuts or scars. Where were they?”

“Oh,” he said, the tension in his voice dimming. “Her abdomen. All over. All the way across and back. There were a lot. We had to take photos, you know? For our file. We had the hospital document everything. We had hoped to nail the Devil’s Blade for what they did to her, but ultimately, she wouldn’t help us.”

“Right,” Josie said. “How deep were the cuts?”

“I don’t know. I mean, some of ’em were old, like the ones near her breasts. They must have been torturing her—like cutting her up—the whole time.”

“Did she tell you that? Did she say all the scars were from her… ordeal?”

He gave an exasperated sigh. “Well, yeah, Quinn. That’s what she told the doctors. I’d been over her file about a hundred times trying to convince her to testify against the Devil’s Blade. How the hell do you think I know all this?”

“Did she need stitches on the newer cuts?”

“No, I don’t think so. I mean she was sliced up pretty good, but they were superficial. The newer ones. I remember that. Thinking how lucky she was but also how cruel they were to cut her up just enough that she would be scarred. A pretty young girl like that?”

Josie wanted to say something snarky about a “pretty young girl” preferring her life to being able to wear a bikini, but she kept quiet.

“What the hell’s this about, Quinn?” he asked.

It’s about the lies Gretchen’s told, she thought. To Starkey, she said, “A hunch. We’ll talk later.”