The Hunt

CHAPTER 12

Using Nick’s computer, Quinn e-mailed his report to his boss as Nick approached with a paper cup from the coffeehouse up the street.

“Black, with a shot.”

Quinn raised his eyebrow. “Shot?”

Nick cracked a smile. “Espresso. Added caffeine.”

He laughed and accepted the coffee, feeling some of the tension roll off his shoulders.

Nick sat in the visitor seat across from his desk, waving Quinn back into his chair. “I finished logging the evidence,” Nick said, “and Deputy Booker is going to take it to Helena first thing in the morning.”

“Good.” Quinn sipped the coffee. He noticed his index finger drumming the side of the cup and consciously had to stop the fidgeting. This case was difficult, but his frustration had more to do with Miranda than with the investigation.

He asked, “Did Doc Abrams confirm the blood was Rebecca’s?”

“Same blood type; he’s sending a sample to the lab to confirm DNA, but you and I both know it’s hers.” Nick paused. “Dammit, Quinn. The mildew and mold in that place is going to destroy any trace evidence.”

“Perhaps, or maybe we found it quickly enough.” The flat, filthy mattress flung on the cabin floor probably had nothing they could use, but the crime tech had vacuumed everything in the shack and each grain of dirt would be inspected by the lab. Quinn would see to it.

“I’m calling in a friend of mine to help,” Quinn continued.

“Another FBI superagent?” Nick said, trying to be lighthearted, but Quinn detected a hint of something else, a tad bitter. He hoped Nick wasn’t still angry about Eli Banks’s Chronicle article this morning. Banks had slighted Nick because he was mad that Nick hadn’t given him the quote he wanted, end of story. But the allusion that the FBI was coming in to clean up the investigation must have hit a sore spot.

Of course, knowing Eli Banks, this was the first of many negative articles.

“Not exactly. A lab tech, one of the best, and a personal friend. Olivia St. Martin.”

“That name’s familiar. Isn’t she a friend of Miranda’s?”

Quinn nodded. “They were roommates at Quantico.”

“Do you think it’ll help?”

“Olivia would do anything to help Miranda. She’ll come; I just have to ask. It was too late to call last night when I thought of the idea. There are few lab techs as dedicated as Olivia, and she specializes in trace evidence.”

“Whatever you think will help catch this bastard.”

“If there’s anything in the evidence, Olivia will find it. Then we just need a suspect.” It sounded so easy. But they had no suspects. Not even a hint of one.

Nine girls missing, seven dead. The missing girls were presumed to be victims of the Butcher because their cars had been found disabled two to four miles from their last stop.

After Miranda and Sharon’s disappearance, the joint FBI-Sheriff’s investigation yielded a bare-bones M.O.: the assailant disabled the victims’ car by pouring molasses into the gas tank when they stopped for food, gas, or to use the rest room. He followed them until they broke down, and probably offered to help fix their car or give them a lift.

Quinn suspected that the assailant looked nonthreatening, was known to the victims, or caught them unaware when they got out of the car to flag down a motorist.

Even though Miranda was their only witness, Quinn didn’t think her story was typical of the other abductions. In fact, he suspected either the Butcher had thought Sharon was alone or didn’t think Miranda would return so quickly after trying to get help.

After Miranda led investigators to the shack, she told Quinn what had happened that night.

It still gave him chills thinking about it.

“Sharon and I went to Missoula to shop. A day trip. We decided to catch a movie.”

Miranda paused, and her father reached over with water. She sipped through a straw. “Dad, would you mind finding a soda for me? I’d love a Coke.”

“Of course.” Bill Moore touched his daughter on the cheek, then left the room.

When the door closed, Miranda looked at Quinn and said, “He’s hurting so much, I didn’t want him to hear this.”

Quinn kept his surprise to himself, but Miranda never ceased to impress him. After what she’d been through, that she’d think first of sparing her father’s feelings showed her solid character as much as, if not more than, her will to survive.

She lay on the hospital bed, her black hair limp but clean against the stark white sheets. Her face pale, bruised-a bandage circled her head, her eyes were swollen and purple. Across her entire body, small and large cuts were covered with bandages.

He knew from the doctor’s report that she’d been raped multiple times; that she’d needed dozens of stitches on her legs and stomach and breasts from cuts made by a sharp object; that she’d been tortured with a metal vise.

That she’d survived and escaped when everything was stacked against her amazed him.

That she was willing to discuss what had happened and help them find the bastard who did this to her and killed her best friend showed more character and spine than most of the agents Quinn had worked with possessed.

“The movie let out after nine,” she said, “and by the time we were on the road it was ten. We were in Sharon’s car, one of those Volkswagen bugs. I used to give her such a hard time about it.” Tears welled up in Miranda’s eyes, but she continued. “I mean, it was stuck for months in the winter because she couldn’t drive it in the snow or ice, the battery would be deader than a doornail when the snow melted…” Her voice trailed off and she swallowed. “But Sharon loved Herbie. You know, named after the Love Bug.”

Quinn didn’t push her, even when she closed her eyes. The trail of tears sliding down her face tore at him. He’d worked with many victims, in all states of hysteria, but something about Miranda’s grief hit him hard. He found himself wanting to console her with more than words.

She continued on her own and he focused on taking notes.

“We stopped in Three Forks because Herbie was running out of gas, and I didn’t think we’d make it to the Lodge, even though we were less than thirty miles away. Sharon was always doing that, running the car on fumes. Three times since I’ve known her she called me to bring her gas.” She smiled at the bittersweet memory.

“We were hungry, and there was a fast-food place there, so we popped in for fries and a Coke and ate inside, because Sharon didn’t like anyone eating in Herbie.”

Again, she paused, but her eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. What was she looking at? Remembering? Trying to forget?

“Then we left. About five minutes later, Herbie started jerking, and a mile out of Manhattan he just stopped. Sputtered and died.” She paused. “I should never have told her to stop. We might have had enough gas to get home. If only I’d-”

“Stop, Miranda,” Quinn said, then cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Ms. Moore.”

“That’s okay. My name is Miranda.”

“You can’t think about what you might have done differently. None of this was your fault. It was all his fault. You have to know that.”

“The press is calling him the Bozeman Butcher.”

Quinn grimaced. “I hate the press.”

“I’m beginning to,” she said quietly. He wondered if she’d seen the picture of her being lifelined out of the valley. He’d hoped the hospital staff would have kept her from seeing the papers or watching the news. He’d already yelled at the sheriff for some of the details that had been released, not only about Miranda’s condition but the investigation itself.

But now was not the time to think about that. He asked, “What happened after the car broke down?”

“I teased her. I teased her about Herbie and how she loved him too much.”

She took a deep breath and continued. “I know the area and remembered that there’s a pay phone at this little gas station that closes at dark. I was going to call my dad and have him pick us up.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I was headed there. I was just around the bend, two, three hundred yards away, when a car came up behind me. It was two old people and they offered to give me a lift. I told them what happened, and they had a car phone. I mean, I don’t know anyone who has a phone in their car, except the mayor. They let me use it to call my dad. He said he’d pick us up in twenty minutes.”

She looked at him with such agony. “Why didn’t I take the ride? Maybe they would have scared him off and Sharon would still be alive.” She stopped, her voice catching. “I told them my dad was coming, to go ahead and I’d wait with Sharon.”

“Miranda, you had every reason to feel safe.”

“Nothing bad happens here. I never thought-” She stopped, stifled a sob, then continued. “I went back and Sharon wasn’t there. I mean, she wasn’t in the car. I called for her and she screamed for help.”

“Where was she?”

“In the gully by the side of the road. I thought animal, bear, something-I didn’t have a gun, I mean I have one, but I don’t carry it around, you know? I yelled, tried to scare away whatever animal had terrified Sharon, and, and…” She stopped.

“And?”

“Nothing. I heard a sound behind me, I turned, and…” She paused, thinking. “I smelled something sweet. Sickly sweet. My head hurt, then nothing.”

She looked at him again, her eyes bright with emotional pain.

“Nothing until I woke up chained to a floor. I didn’t know why I was so cold until I realized I had no clothes on.”

Nick’s office doubled as the task force room for the Butcher investigation. A map of the region south of the interstate all the way to West Yellowstone filled a good part of one wall. Colored pins marked where women had disappeared, where their bodies were found, and where they were held captive. A fine line traced the most likely route of their escape based on the evidence.

Except for Sharon, none of the seven known victims had made it more than two miles. Sharon had been killed four miles from the shack; Miranda had fallen into the river another half-mile away.

The remainder of the wall displayed a timeline with photographs and bullet-point information in Nick’s small, neat block letters.

Quinn walked over to the board and reviewed the information he knew by heart, pleading for something to jump out at him.

Penny Thompson. Missing: 5/14/91.

Car abandoned in gully off Interstate 191, 2.7 miles from Super Joe’s Stop-n-Go.

Penny filled her car at the Stop-n-Go at 10:46 p.m. Used rest room. Purchased a large Diet Pepsi and pretzels. Left approximately 10:55 p.m.

There had been no security camera on the pumps where Penny had left her vehicle.

At the time, the police treated Penny’s case as a Missing Person with possible foul play. Because there was a small amount of blood on the steering wheel and it appeared her car crashed into the gulley, they never ruled out an accidental death. They didn’t know they had a serial killer; Sheriff Donaldson felt her ex-boyfriend had killed her and dumped her car as a ruse, but couldn’t find any proof to support his accusation. It wasn’t until three years later that she was recognized as the likely first victim of the Butcher.

Two years later, Dora Feliciano disappeared. She didn’t own a vehicle, but was walking home from work in downtown Bozeman. There was still a question as to whether the Butcher was responsible for her disappearance. The Sheriff’s Department looked heavily at her live-in boyfriend, who had no alibi for the time, but no solid evidence connected him with her disappearance.

It wasn’t until Colleen Thorne, Quinn’s partner, came to Montana three years ago, after the Croft sisters disappeared, that Dora was even put on the board. Colleen’s reasoning was that the Butcher was still developing his strategy. Dora had been an easy target-walking alone late at night. Bozeman was a low-crime town; most women used to feel safe.

Miranda Moore and Sharon Lewis. Disappeared 5/27/94. Sharon killed 6/2. Miranda found by Sheriff’s search team.

Quinn’s entire body shuddered remembering how close Miranda had been to dying. What she’d endured at the hands of the Butcher, her will to live, her escape.

The information on Miranda’s sheet was longer, more detailed. That was when they’d realized they had a premeditated abduction on their hands. That they had a serial killer. They went back to Penny Thompson’s case, but her father had long since gotten rid of her car and when the police tracked it down, the new owner said the carburetor had been so gummed up that he’d picked up a rebuilt carb and replaced it. The original had been junked.

In June of 1997, Susan Kramer and her roommate Jenny Williams disappeared. They immediately were considered victims of the Butcher because their abandoned car had molasses in the gas tank. Four months later, deer hunters came across Susan’s body. It wasn’t in good condition, but was identifiable through the autopsy. She’d been shot in the leg and chest.

Jenny’s body was never found.

Nineteen ninety-nine was a banner year for the Butcher, Quinn thought with disgust. Three missing women from the University, all abducted separately, three weeks apart, starting on April twenty-eighth. None of their bodies was ever recovered. And in 2001 another woman, a freshman biology major from Florida, disappeared, leaving behind her disabled car three miles from her last stop.

Karen Papadopoulis’s case was different only in that her body was discovered before her vehicle, which had been concealed off a little-used road west of Old Norris in neighboring Madison County. She’d been shot in the thigh by a high-velocity rifle, but that wasn’t what killed her.

Her throat had been slit.

Quinn turned from the board with the familiar uneasy anger that the Butcher was smart and cunning and would keep on killing until he made a mistake. But he hadn’t made a mistake yet.

“So we know the unsub has a vehicle,” Quinn said as he paced. “But he can’t drive all the way to the shack. All the women were slight, under 130 pounds. A man in shape could carry them.”

“Or drag them on a makeshift sled.”

“True, but we haven’t seen evidence of that type of tracks, have we?”

Nick shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay, so he carried the girls up there. Sometimes two.”

“Separately?”

“Most likely.”

The Butcher was patient. Methodical. A planner. He had to have laid out his route before the abductions; the shack would have been prepared with chains and a lock on the door. He was strong enough to transport a slender woman over steep terrain, probably driving a four-wheel-drive as close as he could get before hoofing it.

They’d never found evidence that he used a horse, but Quinn couldn’t rule it out. Since the Butcher was methodical, he could have painstakingly covered up horse tracks.

Quinn focused again on the map, his chin resting on his hand.

“The cabins are all fairly close, three to five miles, to some sort of road, or an unused, overgrown trail,” he said. It wasn’t a new revelation; he was simply trying to think of the investigation from another angle. “We’ve already determined that he’s strong, but in addition to muscles, he has to be accustomed to long, arduous manual labor.

“Nothing came of the property search,” Quinn continued. They’d run ownership records in the areas the other women were held in and came back with as many owners as cabins. “What about where Rebecca was found?”

“It’s private property, a thousand-acre spread owned by a Hollywood type. He comes up once, twice a year. He probably doesn’t even know the shack is on his land. His spread is on the other end.”

“Have you checked him out?”

Nick paused. “No.”

Quinn frowned. “What about his house?”

“He has a caretaker.”

“I’ll go check it out.”

Nick’s jaw tightened, and Quinn suspected Nick felt he’d neglected something. While it was an important avenue in the investigation, Quinn also worried Nick would feel threatened, especially after the negative spotlight the press was shining on the Sheriff’s Department.

“It’s a long shot,” he told Nick. Nick didn’t look placated.

“I’ll go pull the records on the property. Be back in a minute.” Nick left.

Quinn watched him close the door and frowned. Nick was letting the press get to him, and that wasn’t a good sign. Colleen had given him a rundown, and labeled the Sheriff’s Department under Nick’s command as “very competent,” but noted that the previous sheriff had been more lax in his reports and investigation, particularly with the missing girls. Quinn made a mental note to call Colleen in the morning and see if she had any further insight.

He turned back to the board. The key profile points of the Butcher were listed on the far right.

White male age 35-45.

Born or raised in Montana; superior knowledge of area.

Familiar with MSU; former student, professor or staff.

Molasses in the gas tank to disable the car; is there a reason for this trademark, or just convenience and effectiveness?

During World War II, American troops had disabled German tanks with sugar. It was a well-known tactic, displayed prominently on revenge-oriented websites. The FBI profiler Vigo considered that the Butcher might have once been in the military, but dismissed it. “He wouldn’t have volunteered, and he’s too young to have been drafted,” he’d told Quinn twelve years ago.

They had a list of all the students, professors, and staff that fit the profile at the time Miranda was abducted. There were hundreds of them.

When they learned Penny was probably the first victim, it was three years too late. They still ran the records, ending up with hundreds of white males under thirty-five who had had contact with Penny on at least a casual basis.

Nick stepped back into the room and handed Quinn a note. “Here’s the information about the spread, the caretaker, and the owner.”

“Thanks.” Quinn pocketed the slip of paper. “Where are the files from the Penny Thompson investigation?”

“In archives.”

“Including the University records?”

“Hers? Or the suspects’?”

“All the men who had known her.”

“Those totaled in the hundreds.”

“I know.”

“They were returned to the University.”

Shit. He’d have to get a warrant because of the Privacy Act.

Quinn ran a hand through his hair. “We need to get them back. We’ve already determined that Penny was likely the first victim. After fifteen years, we can rule out most of those men on the list, but we have to go through them one by one. Cross off those who are married, dead, or moved far from the area. It at least gives us a place to start.”

“It sounds like a long shot.”

“I don’t know that anything will come of it,” Quinn said, his voice surprisingly bitter. “I really hate serial killers. They’re smarter, shrewder, harder to pin down. Their mistakes are usually small. But this is all we’ve got.”

Quinn didn’t want to jump down Nick’s throat again. He’d already made it clear this morning that following up on Penny’s abduction was crucial.

Instead, he asked, “Did you ever wonder why the killer didn’t come after Miranda after she escaped?”

Nick looked surprised. “Actually, no.”

“I have. I’ve thought about it a lot. All my training says that the killer would hate her for getting away, a mistake, his screwup. He considers himself superior to women, or feels a driving need to prove his superiority because he felt inferior as a boy. He hates women. It’s about control. Domination. But he couldn’t control Miranda.

“The fact that Miranda got away should enrage him,” Quinn continued. “But he’s never gone after her. Which leaves me with the conclusion that he’s proud of her in some fashion. Or, that he keeps her alive to remind him of something. The hunt, or that he lost his prize.”

“That she beat him in the hunt?”

Quinn rubbed his forehead. “It just doesn’t make sense. He should want revenge. He should have gone after her. Instead, it’s as if he respects her enough to stay away.

“And that, Nick, goes against the grain and makes me think we could be looking in all the wrong places.”