“Did you get a good look at either of the women?” I glance at Little as I ask this, thankful he’s taking notes.
“White women, in their thirties, I guess. Maybe forties. One of them was blond—the one driving. The other one had dark hair.”
“But you didn’t see them talk to anyone on the street or anything like that?”
“Nope, they just drove by day after day. Most times twice, like I said.”
“Did you notice the license plate?” The taste of bile makes me want to puke again.
“I didn’t get the numbers, but it was one of those state parks ones. I like those tags.”
At least that’s something. “You have Ms. Scoggins’s details?” I ask Little.
He nods.
I struggle to retrieve a card from my jacket pocket and pass it to the lady. “Please call me if you think of anything else. Or if you hear anything from anyone that might help us figure out what happened here.”
She looks at my card, then at me. “I will,” she says, “but God knows that monster don’t deserve no help from the police or anyone else.”
I thank her and manage to walk out of the house on my own. I go straight to Walt’s Tahoe and climb in. Little says something to me, but I can’t respond.
Instead, I close my eyes and slip into the darkness closing in on me.
Sleep is the only way to escape this hellish nightmare.
Two
Detective Walter Duncan
By early afternoon, Liv seems more like herself. Damn, I’m glad. I worry about that girl like she’s my own daughter.
This case coming right on the heels of the one we just closed adds another layer of stress to both our lives. Fanning, the probable vic, is a newly released pedophile whose victims were mostly little girls. The bastard is a couple years older than me, and the fourteen years he spent in prison weren’t nearly enough. God only knows how many children he abused before he got caught. Thirteen that we know of. Personally, I hope someone dragged him out into the woods somewhere and beat the shit out of him before pouring gasoline over his naked body and setting him on fire. Enough said.
Except now he’s Metro’s problem. No matter that he is a monster, not worthy of the air he breathes; he’s entitled to the same protection under the law as anyone else. I roll my eyes and heave a weary breath. It’s Liv’s and my job to make sure the investigation is handled by the book. The chief already called and warned me that the world will be watching to see that the no-good SOB—my words, not the chief’s—gets the same treatment as any other citizen of our fair city.
“I’ve confirmed,” Liv says, dragging my attention from the frustrating thoughts, “the whereabouts of his known victims. Three are dead and two are in prison. One moved to Seattle years ago. The rest still live in this area.”
“So we have seven of his victims to check out,” I say.
It’s possible that someone besides one of his victims broke into Fanning’s home, fought with him over drugs or some other unsavory business, and then carried him off, but it’s far more likely that the motive is revenge for the bastard’s very public sins. Either a victim, or a friend or family member of a victim, is the most realistic scenario.
In my experience, it’s always best to start with the things we know. If none of those things pan out, then we delve into the unknowns. None of his neighbors noticed any visitors at Fanning’s place—only the somewhat suspicious drive-bys. Of course, he only moved in one month ago, and most of the neighbors prefer not to get involved. No drugs or drug paraphernalia were found on the premises. No alcohol, no firearms. Three pairs of jeans and three shirts in the closet. The same number of T-shirts and boxers, as well as socks, were tucked into a drawer in a single shabby dresser. Cheese and deli meats, along with a carton of milk, were in the fridge. His wallet—cash and ID still inside—was on the bedside table.
I figure if he isn’t dead already, he will be very soon.
Unless we can find him first. Which frankly makes me want to slow-walk this shit.
“Right.” Liv nods. “Thankfully, it appears most of his known victims were able to pull their lives together.”
That’s one part of being a victim that just makes the tragedy suck all the more—the aftereffects. The shit that pulls you back over and over to the nightmare you so want to put behind you. Damned PTSD.
“We should pay a visit to Sanchez’s mother.” I have a feeling about him.
It may be nothing. But in reading the file about Fanning’s final victim, Mario Sanchez—the only known male victim—something about the way he escaped gnaws at me. He’s twenty-five now. But he was a scrawnyten-year-old at the time of his abduction. He nearly killed Fanning in the process of getting away. Too bad he didn’t.
The idea that maybe he wants to finish the job is not an easy one to ignore.
“Wouldn’t hurt.” Liv stands from her desk and reaches for her jacket. “You thinking he and his pals might not be mountain climbing?”
