Don’t Talk to Strangers: A Novel (9 page)

“Long story,” I said.

We walked for a couple of minutes. The creek was rocky and shallow, clear enough and
still enough in places to see the tadpoles feeding near the bank, trout swimming by.
“Why do you think he held those girls so long?” Meltzer asked quietly.

“He gets something from them. At least until he doesn’t anymore.”

“What?”

“Sex, a sense of power. Control. He’d keep them until they no longer fueled his fantasy
life. Or until it became dangerous to continue holding them. More likely it’s the
former.”

“And then he kills them,” the sheriff said.

“It’s the logical next step.”

7

I could hear the phones upstairs, and the calm monotones of the emergency operators.
Doris answered a call now and then on the sheriff’s direct line and carefully put
messages in a spiral message pad. I unpacked my case, put my laptop and notebooks
on the desk Sheriff Meltzer had offered me in the main room. Meltzer introduced me
to his head of Criminal Investigations, Major Tina Brolin, and her detective, Robert
Raymond, before he left. Everything had been going pretty well until then.

A couple of file folders landed on the metal desk in front of me followed by a thumb
drive. It skidded across the desktop. I caught it before it fell off the edge. “Just
so you know, this wasn’t my idea,” Major Brolin told me.

“Oookay,” I said, and looked up at her. She had a slight overbite. I zeroed in on
two tiny permanent impressions her front teeth had made in her bottom lip. It was
hard to look at anything else after that. She was five-five and trim. Size did not
inhibit her ability to put out some really crappy energy. I mean, I’m not exactly
a spiritual giant but I kind of wanted to set some sage on fire and chant something
cleansing. “If I want to see physical evidence, will I have access?”

“Sheriff says to give you what you want.” Major Brolin’s dark hair was pulled tight
off her face. It looked like it hurt. “We can instruct
the evidence room at the judicial center if you need something. An officer will have
to be present, of course.”

“Of course,” I said, and glanced over her shoulder at Detective Raymond. “Can we talk
after I have a little time with the files? I’d love to discuss the cases. With you
both.”

“You’d love to discuss the cases?” Brolin said. They exchanged an incredulous glance.
“This is
our
case.
We
live here.
We
care about the people here. You don’t know anything about this community.”

“Exactly,” I said. Brolin and Raymond stared at me for three seconds before I was
looking at their backs. They disappeared into a rear office.

I glanced at Doris. “Guess I missed a memo.”

“You have no idea,” Doris said quietly. I realized for the first time just how unpopular
the sheriff’s decision to hire outside help had been. It was not what I had expected
to walk into.

I opened my laptop and waited for it to blink on and give me the password bar. It
didn’t. I pressed the
POWER
button and it came quickly to life. It had been shut down. And I didn’t do it. I’m
vigilant about this. I power down every other night for maintenance purposes. I take
care of my stuff. I clean my gun, I change the oil in my car, and I shut down my computer
on a schedule.

I checked inside my computer case and saw the manila folders with crime-scene photos
and the reports Meltzer had emailed me, the notes I’d begun on a legal pad when Meltzer
had first called my office, a list of assignments I’d given Neil. Everything was in
order. And then I saw my car keys in the long front pocket of the case. I had intentionally
zipped them into an interior pocket. I glanced at my car in the lot out front, then
at Doris working at her desk, then toward the back office. One of these people had
looked through my things and tried to get into my computer after I walked out the
back door with the sheriff.

I pushed in the flash drive, began to skim back over the reports I’d studied last
night from the state crime lab. I then went through the file for Melinda Cochran and
studied the statements taken after her disappearance. The sheriff was right. The interviews
with Melinda’s parents were bare bones. The cops knew them. They had excluded
them quickly. Some effort was made to reconstruct Melinda’s interaction with family
in her final days. No big blowups or arguments. Melinda didn’t seem particularly upset
about anything, according to her parents, beyond the “usual ups and downs with friends”
and the normal concerns of a thirteen-year-old who wanted to “fit in.” There were
no medical records either, nothing to explain the broken bones.

I jotted down names and addresses of Melinda’s closest friends and read over their
interviews carefully. None of them remembered seeing anyone unfamiliar in the area
in the days and weeks prior to the abduction. They’d been talking, laughing, as they
left school that day. There were people around—parents, kids, teachers, all familiar.
Melinda and three of her friends walked home together every day. They lived a couple
of blocks apart. Melinda walked the last two blocks alone. The police had scoured
the area. They’d found her cell phone in the street, crushed by traffic. The pieces
had been collected, checked for prints, and stored. No prints. Not even Melinda’s.
Not even a partial—wiped clean.

Eleven years ago, Tracy Davidson’s friends had made similar statements. They’d seen
Tracy in school but not on the school bus that afternoon. The interview with Tracy’s
parents and brother had been more extensive. Her father had served six years for armed
robbery and assault with intent. Her brother, then eleven years old, had been home
sick the day Tracy disappeared. I read over their statements carefully and the investigator’s
notes. Tracy’s dad had been considered a prime suspect in the beginning. There were
multiple domestic abuse calls from their home. Investigators had executed warrants
and searched the premises thoroughly after Tracy had been missing for a week. Mr.
Davidson had been hauled in twice more for follow-up statements. No evidence had been
found to link the Davidsons to their daughter’s disappearance. The case went cold.
Tracy was listed simply as missing, and the notations in the file made it clear the
investigators suspected she was a runaway. I couldn’t fault them too much. They’d
found absolutely no evidence of foul play. And it looked like Tracy Davidson had a
lot to run away from.

I stood up, felt Doris’s attention shift to me, walked to the back. If
they’d used the floor plan as it was intended, both the back rooms would have been
bedrooms. But they were offices instead, one clearly belonging to the sheriff. An
antique oak desk held a nameplate with raised gold letters. His windows looked out
on the water. The second office had two desks, metal like the one I’d been using in
front, both piled with files and papers, the occasional candy wrapper and coffee ring.
A box of doughnuts was open on Raymond’s desk, half full. I wanted one, but no one
was offering.

I tapped on the door. “Sorry to bother you, Major, but I need to know if Tracy Davidson
and Melinda Cochran had broken bones and fractures prior to their disappearance. There’s
no medical records in the file, and it wasn’t covered in the interviews.” I was hoping
she’d offer to help. She didn’t. Not even a courtesy glance in my direction. I sharpened
my tone a little. “I need the statements from the parents regarding the physical condition
of both girls as soon as possible. And I need the medical records.”

“You hear that, Major?” Raymond asked. “As soon as possible. Guess we better snap
to.”

“We’re a little busy, as you can see,” Tina Brolin told me.

“I don’t give a damn how busy you are. This is a priority,” I said, and their heads
jerked up. I needed to put an end to this before Brolin and Raymond rolled over me
completely. “I’m here to do a job with the full confidence of the sheriff. And since
we’re obviously not going to be friends, I will hang you and your shitty attitudes
out to dry if you get in the way of my doing that. I hope that’s clear.”

Brolin held my eyes for a few seconds. “Make the calls,” she instructed Raymond, then
went back to the work on her desk.

I returned to my borrowed desk. Doris watched me silently. I heard Raymond’s voice
on the phone apologizing for the call, inquiring about any injuries Melinda might
have had. “We will, Bryant. I promise you that,” he was saying. I looked back at the
reports. Bryant Cochran, Melinda’s father. A sick feeling washed over me. Murder is
a wrecking ball. After it slams into your life, everything feels like a betrayal.
No one can give you enough support. No one can fill the canyon that has been dynamited
into you. It’s unfillable. Melinda’s
father was pushing them for answers. And he wasn’t getting any. “Just give us a little
more time,” Raymond told him. “We’re doing our best, Bryant.”

I doubted they were doing their best. In fact it looked to me a lot like they’d all
but given up. I heard Major Brolin answer her phone. She came out a minute later.
Detective Raymond followed her, slipping into a shoulder holster. “Another robbery
in the golf cottage district,” Brolin told Doris. She didn’t look at me before she
walked out.

Detective Raymond stopped at my desk. He was a big, beefy guy in tan slacks with pleated
fronts and a short-sleeved dress shirt that pooched out with his belly over the waistband.
“Melinda’s father says she never had a broken bone. The medical records should be
here later.”

“Okay, thanks. What about Tracy’s parents?”

“No answer.”

“Thanks for making the calls. Not easy, I’m sure.”

“I know them. Everyone does.”

“How about we talk about it later,” I suggested. Might as well extend an olive branch
and see if he’d grab on to it without his boss around. “And Tracy’s case. I’ll buy
the coffee.”

Raymond’s thick lips curled a little. “I’m gonna be busy.”

I watched him walk out, then glanced at Doris. “I think I’m growing on him,” I said.
She didn’t look up. The sheriff’s little lakeshore office was feeling a little too
small at the moment. I loaded up my stuff and left Doris with my mobile number in
case anyone gave a shit. The chances were pretty slim.

8

Miles of flat county blacktop ran alongside the thick green forest. I cut left on
a back road, found a way to the highway, and circled the woods I’d walked through
earlier with the sheriff. I drove about a mile before I saw a sign that said
CATAWBA CREEK
. I U-turned and took a dirt lane that peeled off the road just after the metal railing
of a bridge. Fifty yards down, it curved and deadened at a campground. A sign mounted
on a post and cemented into the ground read:
OCONEE CAMPGROUND AND RV PARK
. It wasn’t much to look at. Three picnic tables down near the creek, a big dirt lot,
a few hookups for RVs, a few water spigots. A travel trailer with its tow bar propped
on a cement block was parked in a grassy area. It looked locked up tight. No vehicles,
no one stirring. I checked the location services on my phone and made sure everything
was turned on. I sent Neil a text with my location. If this means I’m not the outdoorsy
type, as Meltzer suggested, so be it. But I wasn’t walking into those woods alone
without someone knowing where I was. I take my share of chances, but I try like hell
not to be just plain stupid.

I sat there for a few minutes in the Impala. The top was down and it was shady in
this little dug-in acre of grass and dirt surrounded by Georgia pines. I couldn’t
see the highway from here. And the highway couldn’t see me—the ideal place to walk
into the forest
unseen. The sheriff was betting the killer had come in this way. It made sense.

A beaten-down trail ran along the creek and disappeared into the trees. I thought
about the terror those two girls must have felt, wondered if they knew he was going
to kill them. Had he tormented them with that threat? Maybe that was his thing. They
must have tried to reason with him, pleaded. They would have seen the weapon in his
hand. It was hard to come to terms with that kind of fear, with that long walk of
terror they must have taken with their killer. Maybe he’d hidden the weapon in advance.
Maybe he’d convinced them he was going to release them. That would say something about
him too.