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When the phone rang, Francesca couldn’t help hoping it was Jonah. She wasn’t sure what was left to say, but somehow it didn’t feel as if their conversation was over.
As she grabbed her phone, however, she saw her father’s name on caller ID.
Trying to rein in her disappointment, she made an effort to put some life into her voice. “Hi, Dad.”
“Francesca? I didn’t wake you, did I?”
She glanced at the alarm clock on her nightstand. “It’s not quite eleven, Dad. What’s going on? Are you and Mom okay?”
“We’re fine.”
“Good. What’s up?”
“I’ve been doing those background checks for you.”
With everything else that’d been going on, Francesca had almost forgotten she’d asked him to do some research. Now that he was calling to report, she didn’t have the heart to tell him she’d been kicked off the case. It wouldn’t hurt to hear him out. If what he had to say seemed significant, she’d pass it along to the task force—anyone other than Finch or Hunsacker—just like she planned to do with the DNA results on the panties. If Walt’s contribution didn’t seem significant, at least she could thank him and make him feel she appreciated the time he’d spent. “Right. On Butch Vaughn,” she said.
“And that other fellow, Dean Wheeler.”
She pulled back the covers on her bed so she could wriggle beneath them. “What have you found?”
She heard the shuffle of papers on his end of the line.
“Butch Vaughn was born and raised in Queen Creek, first by his mother, and then by a friend’s family.”
“What happened to his parents?”
“His real father took off before he was born, never paid any child support, and Butch didn’t get along with his stepfather—or his younger half siblings, for that matter. When his stepfather was laid off, Butch’s mother had to go to work, and the situation became untenable. According to one of Butch’s school counselors, who agreed to chat with me off the record, he had severe behavioral problems, anger-management issues and he was failing most of his classes. He improved once he went to live with the Stathams.”
Francesca immediately noted the name. “Was the father Harry?”
“No, but Butch’s friend was. Why?”
“He’s used ‘Harry Statham’ as an alias. Now I know where he got it.”
“His half sister, a Marcie Reed, told me he never forgave their mother for turning him out, for choosing her husband over him. He still has no contact with his siblings. His brother refused to talk to me, said as far as he was concerned Butch died the day his mother did.”
She whistled. “That’s harsh. How did the mother die?”
“Drowned in the bathtub.”
“Any evidence of foul play?”
“There was an investigation, but it was an open-and-shut case. Her blood-alcohol level was sky-high, suggesting she passed out. Her death was ruled an accident.”
Francesca rearranged her pillows to make herself more comfortable. “How old was she?”
“Thirty-six.”
Could the police who’d performed the investigation be wrong? Was that when Butch first began his killing spree? “Did Butch attend the funeral?”
“No. Once he went to live with the Stathams, he never contacted his real family again and they never contacted him. He played football in high school, then went to ASU on an athletic scholarship, which lasted for a year—until he blew out his knee.”
Francesca pictured Butch striding to his office. “These days, he doesn’t even walk with a limp.”
“Maybe the doctors managed to fix him up. I’m guessing he’s had several operations. In any case, the injury was bad enough to end his football career.”
“Is that where he met Paris? At ASU?”
