Say Goodbye

TWENTY-THREE

KIMBERLY DROVE HOME ALL JAZZED UP. THREE A.M., GA 400 was finally empty and she zipped along, humming under her breath, tapping her fingers on the wheel and wishing she drove a Porsche. This was the kind of night it would be great to open the sucker up and watch the speedometer soar.

Instead, she kept her Passat station wagon safely under sixty-five, but that didn’t stop her mind from racing.

Sal would be requesting the creation of a multijurisdictional task force first thing in the morning. Dinchara hadn’t magically confessed to abducting and murdering any of the prostitutes on Sal’s list, but he hadn’t sounded or acted like an innocent man, either. They were onto something, and tonight’s recording would back them up.

Unfortunately, uniformed patrols never came across Dinchara’s vehicle for the requested traffic stop. That didn’t surprise Kimberly overly much. For all of Dinchara’s lowbrow speech, she had an impression of a cold, calculating intelligence. Even on home turf, he’d kept his hat pulled low and obscured his license plate with mud. She had a feeling he’d taken additional precautions with his exit from Sandy Springs.

They still had a BOLO out, however, so hopefully sometime over the next few days someone would spot the vehicle. Plus Sal was going to have Special Agent Sparks and Ginny sit down with a sketch artist and put together a composite drawing they could get into circulation.

By this time next week, hopefully, they’d know Dinchara’s name and vitals. And then the real fun would begin.

She hummed again, “Tainted Love,” and tapped her fingers to the beat.

It occurred to her that she was looking forward to going home. That she wanted to pull into her driveway, bound into her house. She wanted, more than anything in the world, to see her own husband.

That was it. Enough of this nonsense. Minute she got home, she was waking up Mac. They would hash this thing out once and for all. He could move to Savannah on a trial basis, they could find a house somewhere in between, she could explore her options at one of the Bureau’s regional offices. There was a way, there was always a way. They just needed to talk.

Then, she was jumping his bones, because there was nothing like a successful night’s work to make one horny.

Kimberly finally pulled into her driveway. Mac’s truck was gone. Instead, she walked into her living room to discover her father and his wife, Rainie. Quincy sat in the recliner, flipping through the paper. Rainie was curled up on a corner of the sofa, staring at some syndicated sitcom but clearly half asleep. Both roused when she entered the room.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Kimberly blurted out.

“Thought we were overdue for a visit,” her father said simply. Quincy always had been impossible to rattle.

And then Kimberly remembered-the last fight with Mac, her late-night phone message. All at once she blushed, feeling needy and overexposed. She should’ve called her father right back, told him to ignore her plea, she was just having a moment. She should’ve…done something.

“Working?” asked Rainie, barely suppressing a yawn. “Anything interesting?”

“No. Well, maybe. What time did you arrive? Have you had anything to eat? Did Mac show you your room? I’m so sorry to keep you up so late.”

“We’re on Oregon time,” her unflappable father assured her, still sitting in the chair, still holding the newspaper. “It’s not so late.”

Rainie gave him a look, muffled another yawn, then said, “We got in shortly after ten. Mac was home, but got called. I’ll confess, we ate all the leftover pizza-”

“We?” Quincy interjected.

“All right, I ate all the pizza. The Jolly Green Giant over here”-she pointed a thumb at Quincy-“made a salad.”

“We have vegetables?” Kimberly asked in surprise.

“Iceberg lettuce, red onions, and tomatoes,” her father supplied, “which I would assume are condiments in this house, but can be turned into a garden salad if one desires.”

“Huh,” Kimberly said.

Rainie finally broke the ice by crossing the room and giving Kimberly a welcoming hug.

“How are you feeling?” Rainie asked.

“Good. Good. All good.”

“The baby?”

“Healthy, growing, kicking.”

“You can feel it move?” Rainie’s voice picked up, sounded momentarily wistful. Late in life, Kimberly’s stepmom had decided she wanted children. She and Quincy had looked into adoption, but it hadn’t gone as planned. They never talked about it, but Kimberly was relatively sure those doors were closed to Rainie now, and the only children in her life were the ones she assisted as an advocate for abused children.

Did Kimberly’s pregnancy make her jealous, awaken old hurts, fresh regrets? Rainie was a former law enforcement officer, well-practiced in schooling her features and holding her tongue. Whatever she was feeling on the inside, it was doubtful it would ever show.

“Wanna touch it?” Kimberly asked.

“Yes.”

She took Rainie’s hand, moved it to her left side, just around the curve. Baby McCormack, engaged in her nightly aerobics, did not disappoint.

“Boy or girl?” Rainie asked. “What do you think?”

Quincy had gotten off the recliner and was standing next to his wife. He’d never ask, so Kimberly took his hand and pressed it against her side. The baby kicked again. Her father flinched, jerked his hand away. Then he smiled.

“Boy!” he said immediately. He placed his hand back, palm flat against her side.

“I would guess boy as well,” Rainie was saying. “Girls are supposed to steal their mother’s beauty; you still look plenty beautiful to me.”

Kimberly nearly blushed. “All right, all right. Give the beautiful mother some air. And a glass of water.”

She headed for the kitchen, fetching a glass of water for herself, a second for Rainie. Quincy was a dedicated coffee drinker, so even though it was three in the morning, she brewed him a pot. They all moved to the kitchen table, a touching family scene except that not one of them had thought to turn on the overhead light. That alone said something about their chosen professions.

“Mac say anything before he bolted?” Kimberly quizzed now.

“Not to wait up.”

Kimberly grunted, chewed on her lower lip, trying to think what might be going on. She didn’t know what Mac was working on these days. They’d talked about her cases, but not his.

“And your night?” her father asked.

“Stakeout,” she supplied. “Guy didn’t magically confess, but he did beat the shit out of our informant, which seems to indicate we’re on the right track.”

Quincy raised a brow in interest. “What kind of case?”

“Serial murder. Prostitutes have been disappearing, including six girls whose driver’s licenses were left on the windshield of a special agent’s car. We think this guy might be good for it.” Kimberly chewed her lower lip again. “Problem is, we haven’t turned up any of the remains. Given the lifestyle, the defense can assert the girls simply moved on. Makes for a very messy case. Though, you know, if we could get the tape admissible, that might work.”

“The tape?” Rainie spoke up.

“Audio recording of one of the missing women being killed. Or at least, it sure as hell sounds like she’s being murdered. Get this-the subject makes each victim choose the next victim. In this case, the woman, Veronica Jones, gave up the name of her daughter, Ginny Jones, who is now our informant.”

Rainie stated the obvious. “But he didn’t kill Ginny Jones.”

“According to her, she talked him out of it. The subject has a thing for spiders. So does Ginny. Given their mutual interest, he let her live-if you call working as a prostitute for the rest of your life, while handing over fifty percent of your earnings, living.”

“He remains in control,” Quincy said.

“Exactly. This dude has a thing for control.”

“Can I hear the tape?” Quincy asked.

“It’s at the office. I can get it tomorrow.”

“How did he ask the woman to choose the next victim?”

“Torture. He said he would end it when she gave him the name of someone she loved.”

Quincy had that look. “Did the victim comply immediately?”

“Actually, she tried to give him a fake name. But when he pressed her, why that name, how did that person matter, she fell apart. You can hear her stress, her disorientation from the pain. It’s difficult to think under those circumstances, let alone lie.”

“So she gave up her own daughter. That would seem to imply all the victims share some kind of connection for him.”

“We’re working on it. Actually, a GBI special agent is working on it. Sal already knows three of the prostitutes were roommates; they disappeared one by one. But certainly, we lack major pieces of the puzzle. There are probably some girls on our list of missing persons who did move to Texas, and others who have also disappeared but we haven’t heard about yet.”

“All from one concentrated geographic area?” Rainie spoke up. “What’s the prostitution scene like in Georgia?”

“Vast and varied. There’s the streetwalkers in the red light districts such as Fulton Industrial Boulevard-mostly African American, mostly into drugs. Then you got the massage parlors in places like Sandy Springs-mostly Asian, mostly sex slaves. Then there’s the club scene, which has a bit of everything, white, Hispanic, black, Asian, drugs, nondrugs. And finally, we got the usual sort of activity around the Air Force base in Marietta-local girls offering a few extra services while tending tables.

“Georgia’s a big state; lots of geographic and socioeconomic diversity. If our subject is hopscotching his way through the underground scene, it’ll take a lot of conversations with various agencies to connect those dots, which is one of the reasons he’s been able to stay under the radar for so long.”

“What else do you know of the UNSUB?” Quincy again.

“Well, having seen him for the first time tonight…Mid thirties.”

“Seasoned. Capable of moving about, taking his time, stalking his target.”

“To judge by the tape, I’d say Veronica Jones was not his first victim. He’s had time to refine his methods. Physically, he’s white, five nine or five ten, maybe hundred and seventy pounds. Not big, but lean, wiry. And outdoorsy-hiking boots, jeans, the SUV.”

“Hunter?”

“In this state, a strong possibility.”

“Loner.”

“Interestingly enough, we don’t think so. The GBI special agent involved has received two envelopes on the windshield of his car. Both contained driver’s licenses from missing hookers. Given that no note or further means of communication were attempted, Sal thinks the packages may have come from someone close to the killer, and not from the killer himself.”

Quincy arched a brow, considering the matter. “Fair enough. Most killers, if they’re going to make contact, will engage in some petty taunting while they’re at it.”

“Exactly. Unfortunately, the envelopes yielded no physical evidence. So we still need to identify and track the killer on our own. Once we know who he is, however, we may be able to identify a spouse or family member who can be of some help to us.”

“Socioeconomics?” Quincy moved along.

“Can’t figure him out. Talks white trash, but can also sound very crisp when he wants. And the SUV is nice-a Limited Edition Toyota FourRunner. Clothes as well; he looks casual with the jeans, the flannel shirt, but they’re nice jeans, nice flannel. Maybe once a redneck, but now a yuppie.”

“He’s upwardly mobile. Likes material possessions,” Rainie filled in.

“I think so.”

“It’s going to come down to the money.” Rainie was looking at Quincy. “A seasoned killer like that, ten-plus victims. The amount of time and energy he’s putting into it now. Preparing the kill kit, trolling for victims, covering his tracks, hiding the bodies. It’s a full-time job, especially if he stalks them for a while, too.”

“Has to,” Quincy spoke up. “If he’s letting Victim A choose Victim B, then he’ll have to do a lot of reconnaissance about Victim B before he can move.”

“So he’s busy,” Rainie continued. “Working hard at this. Which means he’s probably not gainfully employed anymore and having to turn to other means to fund his lifestyle.”

“Such as pimping prostitutes,” Kimberly murmured drily.

“Yes. Or fraud, burglary, drugs. There was this case a while back of a guy who was arrested by the Treasury Department for forging checks. When they went through the man’s storage unit, they found boxes and boxes of photos of bound and gagged women being sexually assaulted. Turned out, the guy was a classic sexual-sadist predator who’d operated for years up and down the eastern seaboard, abducting, raping, and killing women. Forging checks was simply how he covered his costs.

“Have you heard of an organization called NecroSearch International?” Quincy asked.

Kimberly shook her head.

“They’re often referred to as the Pig People. It’s a nonprofit organization, comprised mostly of retired scientists and cops. I’ve been thinking about joining.”

“Oh boy,” Rainie said drolly.

But Kimberly was regarding her father with interest. “What do they do?”

“Find bodies. They’re most famous for burying pigs in order to research techniques for locating clandestine graves. They’re also the ones who located Michele Wallace’s body in Colorado, nearly twenty years after she first disappeared.”

“Michele Wallace?” Kimberly repeated, doing a quick mental search but coming up empty. “Sorry, don’t know the case.”

“That’s because you’re too young. 1974. Wallace was twenty-five years old, living in Gunnison, Colorado. An experienced hiker, she set out for a weekend in Schofield Park with her German shepherd. Returning to her vehicle, she encountered two men having car troubles and offered them a ride. She was never seen alive again.

“According to one of the men, Chuck Matthews, Wallace dropped him off in town, then continued on with his friend, Roy Melanson. Not long after that, Roy Melanson was arrested on an outstanding warrant. In his possessions, the police recovered Wallace’s license, camping equipment, even the pack for her dog. The more they dug into Melanson’s background, the more worried the police became. Melanson was wanted for questioning in three separate rape cases, plus a murder in Texas.

“The police began applying pressure, while launching a massive search for Wallace’s body in Schofield Park. And you know what happened?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Police couldn’t find any evidence of foul play, so they couldn’t put together a case. Melanson claimed Wallace gave him everything as a gift. Who could contradict? Melanson was eventually found guilty on fraud charges for cashing stolen checks, served thirteen years, then walked. Michele Wallace’s mother, on the other hand, committed suicide, leaving behind a note that if her daughter’s remains were ever found, to please bury them next to her.”

“Oh God.”

“In 1979, another hiker in Schofield Park came across a pile of hair in the middle of the hiking trail, still attached to a scalp and fashioned into two perfect braids-just like Michele Wallace wore. The police put the hair in storage and that was that. Until 1990.

“A new detective, Kathy Young, contacted NecroSearch International about the case. NecroSearch brought in a botanist, a forensic anthropologist, an archaeologist, as well as other experts. The botanist studied the plant matter found in the braids and, based on the ratio of the various types of needles and tree bark, determined there were only a few places in the entire park where that same ratio of tree species could be found. The scientists homed in on those areas and after a few days of grueling, methodical sweeps, they found Wallace’s skull. In September 1993, Roy Melanson was finally found guilty of Wallace’s death. And April ’94, Michele Wallace’s remains were finally laid to rest next to her mother’s.”

“Oh jeez,” Kimberly murmured, momentarily looking away. The story had choked her up. She hated that.

“Point is,” her father continued, “bodies matter. If your theory is right, there are at least half a dozen remains hidden somewhere. If traditional policing can’t get the job done, maybe the right expert can.”

She thought about it. “We do have a new lead. A special agent recovered a muddy hiking boot from the UNSUB’s vehicle. I was thinking of contacting one of my buddies from the USGS. See about getting some soil samples analyzed, that sort of thing.”

“Test it for lime!” Quincy stated immediately.

“I know.”

“And get a botanist. Ravines have a tendency to be dense with ferns…Perhaps an entomologist or arachnologist, as well. You mentioned spiders…”

“I know, Dad.” She sounded impatient.

Quincy smiled. “Am I lecturing again?”

She caught herself. “No. You’re offering help, and God knows, with this case, we could use help. It’s just…late.”

“Of course. The baby. You should sleep.”

“Yeah, I should.” But no one was moving from the table. Kimberly sipped more water. Wondered about spiders and soil and where the twists and turns of a case could lead a person. Like the last time she worked with the U.S. Geological Survey team, leaping across rattlesnake-infested rock piles, spelunking into a polluted cave, dashing through a burning swamp. Life when she had been younger, quicker, and responsible for only her own welfare.

“How long are you staying?” she finally thought to ask.

Her father and Rainie exchanged a glance. “We left it open-ended,” Rainie replied lightly. “We’ve never spent much time in Georgia. We thought it might be fun to see the sights.”

Kimberly eyed them skeptically. “And your own cases?”

“The joys of being a self-employed consultant,” her father assured her. “You can always bring the work with you.”

“Because he still can’t leave it at home!” Rainie quipped.

Kimberly nodded. She finished her water. So had Rainie.

“I’ll take you to your room,” she said, picking up everyone’s glasses, herding them down the hall.

Rainie went into the guest room first, in her own discreet way giving Kimberly and her father a moment alone.

Kimberly never knew what to say. Her father excelled at silence, but too often, she merely felt choked by all the words wanting to burst out of her throat. She wanted to ask him if he was happy. She wanted to ask him if a lifetime of dedication to his craft had been worth all that he’d lost along the way.

She wanted to ask him about her mother, and what it had been like when they had been a young couple expecting their first child. She wanted to ask him everything, so she asked him nothing at all.

Her father leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek.

For a moment, they both stood like that, eyes closed, foreheads touching.

“Thank you for coming,” Kimberly whispered.

And her father said, “Anytime.”