“The evidence, plus Carter’s disappearance, and yes, the profile, tell a compelling story, but I also know Larry.” She paused a couple feet from her husband. “I’ve known him my entire life, and whatever differences we may have, I just can’t see him as the killer, no matter how hard I try.”
“The Golden State Killer and BTK lived in their communities for years undetected.”
“Do you think it’s Larry?”
“Carter put it all out there for Larry, and Larry took the bait.”
Jo raised a brow. “That’s not an answer.”
Because something in the back of Lincoln’s brain still tickled. He had no doubt Larry was involved—the blind eye to the missing persons cases plus taking Carter’s bait were irrefutable. But other puzzle pieces didn’t fit—the pictures of Larry in town during Dr. Fear’s cycles, the sunny disposition in all his photos, the warm welcome they’d received in town, including from Barry and Larry.
“We unlocked?” Jo asked, refocusing Lincoln’s attention.
“Just now,” O’Shea confirmed.
“He’s got two files labeled Apex,” Reyes said. “This one’s tagged 1988.”
“Not it,” Lincoln said. “That’s private.” He suspected he knew what that one was, and it was none of the FBI’s business. “Go to the 2020 one.”
Reyes clicked on the folder and a directory of files appeared. “Doesn’t look like anything since the night before last,” she said. “His last report was dated and uploaded to the FBI server after he interrogated Baxter.”
“Search the other apps for items from yesterday,” Lincoln said. “Pictures, audio, emails, search history. He questioned the prime suspect. Maybe he recorded it, took pictures while he was there, or looked something up.”
Reyes opened the photo app. “Bingo. We’ve got a handful of pictures from yesterday. Midmorning. Looks like a bathroom.” An array of pictures filled the screen.
“That’s the bathroom in the chancellor’s mansion,” Jo said. “I used it the other day when I met with Larry there. Plumbing in his separate unit wasn’t working.”
Lincoln zeroed in on the last picture, the one in the bottom right-hand corner. A pill bottle. He reached over Reyes’s shoulder and tapped the screen. “Blow this one up.”
Reyes moved the picture to the middle and zoomed in. “It’s a prescription for adalimumab for Ryan McCullough.”
“It’s his house,” O’Shea said. “Makes sense.”
Lincoln wasn’t hung up on whose it was so much as what it was. “Why does that drug sound familiar?”
“You watch TV at all?” Jo asked.
“What does—” At her arched brow demanding a simple yes or no answer, he answered, “Yes.”
“It’s the generic name for Humira. The commercials for it are everywhere.”
The minute she said it, Lincoln saw it in his head, heard the list of conditions it was prescribed for, including Crohn’s disease.
He wobbled where he stood, hands gripping the back of Reyes’s chair to stay upright. The puzzle pieces rearranged and finally—finally—snapped into place. A complete picture.
“Lincoln?” Jo said, voice worried, hand around his biceps.
“You were right,” he said. “And so was I, and so was Carter.”
“I don’t follow.”
He just needed the final confirmation. He turned to O’Shea. “That hair sample from the house, do we have the preliminary screen back yet?”
“Just got it!” Drake said, barreling through the door. “It’s dyed.”
“Not Carter’s, then, and definitely not mine.” He scanned down the panel, looking for the founder variant and the frameshift variant.
They were both there—the gray hair and the increased susceptibility for Crohn’s disease.
