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She thought about the buccal swab in her car. “So when?”
“How about I meet you back at my office in two hours. I’ll be finished up here and can swing back by.”
“I’ll see you here at seven.”
She hung up and walked toward her car, and the streetlights hummed around her as a cold gust of air washed over her. As she reached for her car door handle, a shiver rattled up her spine and an uneasy feeling knotted in the pit of her stomach.
Brooke’s hand went to her sidearm, and she surveyed the parking lot. The man who was pushing the wheelchair was now heading inside. The lights snapped and hissed. But there was no one else in the lot.
She slowly got in her car. Behind the wheel she waited and watched—for what, she didn’t know.
A sudden need to see her son overtook her. If life had taught her anything, it was to listen to her instincts.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Wednesday, November 20, 8:00 p.m.
Nevada and Macy arrived at the house Debbie Roberson had shared with Beth Watson. The state forensic van was on scene, and per Nevada’s orders, everyone was treating this house as part of the crime scene.
Debbie Roberson stood outside her house, her arms folded over her chest as she spoke to the deputy securing the scene.
“I thought Ms. Roberson was at her mother’s house,” Macy said.
“Apparently not,” Nevada replied.
“She doesn’t look happy.”
“She’s damn lucky to be alive,” Nevada growled.
As they strode up to the woman, Macy said, “Ms. Roberson.”
Debbie turned from the deputy, her face a mixture of anger and fear. “They won’t let me inside to get my things.”
“The house is a crime scene,” Macy said. “They can’t let you in right now.”
“How could it be a crime scene? Beth wasn’t found here.”
“But this is likely where the crime originated,” Macy explained. “The crime scene encompasses all the places the killer and victim interacted during the abduction and murder.”
“Her car isn’t here. Does that mean you’re going to do all this to her car?”
“As soon as we find it, yes,” Nevada said. “It’s very likely he transported her or her remains at some point in that car.”
Debbie shook her head. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Beth is dead.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nevada said. “What can you tell us about her?”
“Before she moved in with me, she’d lived in town for about six months,” Debbie said. “She was a friend of a friend who needed a place to live. We became good friends. She’s from a small town in southwest Virginia. Her dream was to be accepted into the university’s CNA program. She wanted to be a nursing assistant.”
“What about family?” Macy asked.
As police personnel came and went from her house, Debbie shook her head. “She has a brother. His name is Mark, but I’ve never met him.”
“Mark Watson?” Nevada asked.
“Yes. I believe he’s serving in the navy and is deployed now. He may be difficult to get ahold of. From what she told me, he was her only sibling.”
“Is the brother older or younger?” Macy asked.
“I believe he’s older.”
“Are their parents in the picture?” Macy asked.
“Father wasn’t a figure in her life, and her mother died a couple of years ago. She’s made her own way.”
“Was she dating anyone?” Nevada asked.
“Not really. I mean, she went out a few months ago, but she’s kind of a homebody.”
From Debbie, they learned that Beth worked sixty to seventy hours a week and she was well liked. There was no unwanted attention from staff or strangers. No red flags. There was nothing that made anyone nervous or fearful for Beth’s safety.
“Did you tell anyone you were switching schedules with Beth?” Macy asked.
“Beth said she took care of it.”
“Are you still staying with your parents?” Macy asked.
“It’s a little crazy at home.” A sad smile curled her lips. “My mom is pretty freaked out and is hovering.”
“What about your boyfriend?” Nevada asked.
“Rafe’s not really my boyfriend, and he was pretty weirded out by the attention at the police station. He’s not answered any of my texts or calls.”
“Do you have any other friends?”
“Yeah. I’ll make some calls. I really need to get my scrubs and pack a bag.”
“That’s going to have to wait,” Macy said.
“This sucks,” Debbie muttered.
“Yes, it does,” Macy replied.
Nevada walked Debbie to her car, his head tilted toward the woman as she continued to talk and point back at her house. Finally, shaking her head, Debbie got into her car and drove off.
As Nevada strode back toward Macy, his phone chimed with a text. “It’s from the medical examiner. Dr. Squibb is making Beth Watson’s examination a priority.”
“I know Bennett was planning to talk to Bruce Shaw, but I’d like to talk to him myself.” Macy dialed the doctor’s office number.
“Questions about Cindy?”
“Yes. And also about Beth and the schedule switch with Debbie. I still think there is something there, but I won’t know it until I see it.”
Macy dialed Bruce Shaw’s number. The phone rang once and went to voicemail. “This is Dr. Bruce Shaw. I’m not available. Leave a message. And if this is a medical emergency, call 911.”
“Dr. Shaw, this is Special Agent Macy Crow. Call me. I have a few questions for you.”
They each donned latex gloves and paper booties and entered a house that could easily pass for the homes of the other victims. “Once we search the property, we can view the autopsy,” Nevada said.
“Is Deputy Bennett joining us?”
“She texted me. She’s touching base with her son and then coming by.”
Bruce Shaw had lived in several cities as he had earned his medical degree and then fulfilled his internship and residency. Had there been an uptick in crimes when he’d moved to a new town? “Guys like this just don’t give up the best gig of their sorry lives.”
Macy dialed Andy’s number. Andy picked up on the third ring. “Tell me you have a ViCAP hit.”
“And good evening to you, Agent Crow.” Andy chuckled, clearly used to Macy’s abrupt approach. “As a matter of fact, I have two possible hits. In Baltimore in 2007 a masked man raped two women. He used red rope to secure their hands. A woman was strangled to death six months after the rapes. Again, red rope was used. In Atlanta, 2012, there were two deaths. Both women had been strangled repeatedly and their hands bound with red rope. Oh, and all the victims lived in one-story homes. I’ve asked for the DNA taken at all the crime scenes to be sent to Quantico, along with their case files.”
“Nice job.”
“It is, if I do say so myself,” Andy said.
“Baltimore and Atlanta are within driving distance of Deep Run,” Macy said.
“I’ll keep searching,” Andy said. “There could be more cases. I’ll call you when I have more information on the Baltimore and Atlanta cases.”
“Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Macy, it’s not luck. It’s communication and computers.”
/> As an afterthought, Macy added, “See what you can find out about Cindy Shaw. She was a high school senior who vanished about the same time as my murder victim.”
“I’ll see what I can find.”
“Andy, I take back everything I said about computer people.” Macy hung up to Andy laughing. “Did you get most of that, Nevada?”
“Yep.”
The front door opened to the small living room she’d seen through the window yesterday. Now inside, she could see the blue couch was worn, but at one time had been top of the line. A couple of green upholstered chairs also looked older, but expensive. The same could be said for all of the furnishings she observed.
In the hallway, they both stared at the stacks of unopened paint cans, rollers and brushes, piles of newspapers, and plastic tarps.
“I think my aunt Susan had a couch similar to that one. Same color, but not as expensive,” Macy said. “Only she covered hers in plastic, and whenever I sat on it in shorts, my skin on the back of my legs stuck as I tried to stand up.” She ran her fingers over an end table, tracing a line of dust. “Looks like the folks at the retirement center or their families handed down furniture to Debbie. She must be popular.”
Nevada’s gun belt creaked as he shifted his weight. “Several families requested her, and she was able to work a great deal of overtime.”
“Leaving Watson here alone often?”
“Adding more to my theory that Watson’s death feels planned, not impulsive.”
“Agreed.”
Most murders were unplanned. In those cases the amateur killers accidentally left something behind that more often than not led to their capture. Called Locard’s exchange principle, it meant that no one entered a scene or left it without leaving some trace such as DNA, hair fibers, fingerprints, trash, or a footprint.
Macy entered the kitchen. The table was a throwback to the eighties with a set of six matching chairs. Debbie or Beth had placed two square green place mats out, as if she expected to share her breakfast with someone.
“Our rapist took one item from each victim’s home,” Macy said. “He liked to break up sets.” She walked up to the counter and keyed in on a prince figurine. She picked it up and shook a dash of salt on the palm of her hand. “Where’s his princess?”
