Defeat was written across Crowell’s dirt-streaked face. “Don’t remember the number. It was on Pond Road. White with red trim.”
The waiver disappeared, replaced by a yellow legal pad. “Write down everything you took. If it matches the homeowner’s report and the timing checks out, we can clear you of the homicide.”
“But now I’m on the hook for the burglary, right?”
Sean crossed his arms and shrugged. “Five to seven is better than twenty-five to life.”
The man sighed and picked up the pen again.
At ten after five, Sheriff Griffin and the task force crowded the conference room, frustration thickening the already stuffy air. The hum of the overhead fluorescent lights drilled into Sean’s skull, adding to the ache building behind his eyes. After hauling Stuart Crowell back to a booking cell, he and Lynch had spent the last hour methodically confirming every piece of the man’s alibi, checking off each detail until there was no room left for doubt.
Crowell’s boss confirmed he’d worked from ten to five on Sunday. His mother swore he’d been home before and after his shift. Two neighbors backed her up, both insisting they’d seen the young man's car parked in the driveway the entire time and hadn’t noticed him leave, whether on foot or in another vehicle.
Brad had also pulled the burglary report from 31 Pond Road. The stolen inventory matched Crowell’s list of what he and his mystery accomplice had taken from the house. The only loose thread was Crowell’s refusal to give up the name of the other guy involved.
The task force couldn’t care less about that.
The guy was dirty, but he wasn’t their killer. The evidence had cleared him of Daphne Jones’s murder, and the burglary case had already been kicked over to the property crimes detectives. Let them deal with him.
Brian and Rafe hadn’t brought back much more to work with. Several employees at the nightclub remembered Daphne well enough—hard not to notice a woman in a tight red dress—but no one recalled seeing her with anyone for any length of time, and no one remembered watching her leave.
The surveillance videos from the club had been a bust too. While Daphne was spotted several times, Brad couldn’t get a clear picture of anyone she was talking to or dancing with. “She must have left through the back door of the place because the only time she appears on the front door video is when they first got there. Unfortunately, the video for the back is worse than the rest. It was too distorted to distinguish anyone, and since it’s in black and white, I couldn’t even look for a red dress.”
Sean leaned back in his chair, the metal frame creaking under his weight. Every dead end scraped at his patience. “Did our UNSUB know the video equipment sucked, tamper with it himself, or did he just get lucky?”
Brad dragged both hands over his face before rubbing at his tired eyes. The man looked as wrung out as Sean felt. “Lucky would be my guess. For a popular place, they have a terrible surveillance setup. It looks like the lenses are caked with smoke and grime. Probably haven’t been cleaned since they were installed. There’s no sign of tampering with the cameras or digital system. So we’re back at square one—no suspects and no leads.”
“And no idea who his next victim is,” Brian added.
The room fell silent, those final words dropping over the table like a shadow. A chill crept up Sean’s spine despite the stale heat pressing against the conference room walls. Every hour they came up empty gave the killer more time to find another woman to torture, and somewhere out there, that predator was walking free while they sat around this table with nothing to show for the day.
“Anything on similar homicides in N-DEx?” Brad asked.
“No. There’s a glitch in the system, and the program’s down.” Sean fought the urge to curse at the timing of it all. “The techs are working on it, and I’m told it should be running again in the morning. As soon as it’s back up, I’ll re-enter the parameters.”
The detective blew out a breath and dropped back in his chair. “Jeez, can’t catch a break today, can we? Does anyone have anything positive to add to this mess?”
Sean pushed to his feet and rolled the stiffness from his shoulders, trying to work out the knots that had taken up residence there. The motion sparked an image of Grace’s hands working the tension from his muscles, her touch warm and sure.
He shoved the thought aside, at least for now. The case demanded every ounce of his focus.
“Well, I’ve got one of the best FBI profilers coming to see us tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Her name’s Dr. Suki Ralston. I’ve worked with her on a few cases, and the woman knows her stuff.”
Brad leaned forward, skepticism written across his face. “I know you feds claim profiling has helped in the past, but does it really work, or is it just a guessing game? I mean?—”
Griffin lifted a hand, cutting him off. “It could be voodoo for all I care, but if it helps us catch this bastard, I’m all for it.” He shifted his attention to Sean. “What time is she coming?”
“She’s flying into Elizabeth City from Quantico and should be here sometime after two. Knowing her, she’ll dig right in and be up half the night going through the files. My guess is she’ll have a preliminary profile ready first thing Thursday morning.”
He turned to Brad. He’d heard the same doubts from plenty of cops over the years. Most thought profiling was some kind of television trick that magically delivered a suspect with a neat little bow tied around it. “And the answer to your question is yes, it works, but it won’t hand you your suspect on a silver platter like the public seems to think, though I wish it did. It’s another tool to help narrow the search.”
The sheriff rose and headed for the door, his chair scraping across the floor. “Sounds good. Lynch, update your file and leave a copy on my desk. Everyone else, I’ll see you in the morning.”
He paused at the doorway and looked back. “Oh, and I’d like all of you with me at tomorrow’s press conference at eleven. The commissioner and mayor want the public to see we’re using every available resource to solve this. You don’t have to be at every one. Maybe every few days until this is over.”
Brad snatched up his file and headed for the exit. “Smile pretty for the cameras, boys.”
A chorus of groans rolled through the room. Dealing with the press and city officials ranked somewhere between paperwork and root canals on Sean's list of professional headaches. Still, politics came with the badge. Keep the right people happy often enough, and sometimes they come through when you need resources, funding, or a favor pushed through the right channels. It was a game he’d never enjoyed playing, but he understood the rules well enough.
