Page 59 of Dead Drift

They’d spent the remainder of their time in Houston speaking with the final two detectives, who were both friendly, though not overly helpful in offering new leads. The most Griffin and Finley had gained from them was confirmation that the victims in both of their cases had endured at least three out of the seven words from Burke’s list. The words neither case was tied to in a clear way were leader, agent, and barn.

Thankfully, they hadn’t had another encounter with either of their intruders, but unease still raked through Griffin. Shifting, he scanned the passengers around them, wondering if the killer was aboard the flight, if he was following their steps.

He had a nagging feeling that wouldn’t release its hold, suffocating the peace out of him. The killer was near. He could feel it. Perhaps not on their flight, but definitely on their trail.

He continued surveying the passengers, his gaze not locking on anyone in particular, so he settled back in his seat—though he wouldn’t be truly settled until this case was over and the killer behind bars.

They’d also spoken with the victims’ families before leaving, which had torn him apart, bringing back memories of the detectives who’d come to his home after Jenna’s disappearance, and again after her body was discovered. He didn’t know that they’d learned anything pertinent to finding the young women’s killer from the families, but they now had a much better feel for the victims, and that was always helpful in an investigation.

According to their families, all the victims had been beautiful, vibrant, loving women. All in relationships—most with young men the parents didn’t know about until after their disappearance. In addition, four out of the five Houston victims had recently moved from an old boyfriend to a new one in the months prior to their murders. It was an interesting, if not unique, thread. Jenna had secretly been involved with Parker, and the relationship was relatively new. New, but deeply intense, as the two were planning marriage.

He exhaled and reached for his coffee cup, the Styrofoam warm in his palm. Was there something in the victims’ relationship statuses that the killer didn’t like? It seemed too frequent an occurrence to be a coincidence. Perhaps, in the killer’s warped eyes, he viewed the young women as betraying their families with the secret relationships, or perhaps betraying their former boyfriends.

If that was the case, it meant the killer had studied the victims or, at the very least, searched out young women involved in that type of relationship.

If he’d stalked them, as Griffin believed, there was a higher likelihood of catching the killer, because it tied him to the victim for a longer period, rather than if he had just randomly snatched them. No. Griffin bet he’d studied and stalked, and if that were the case, there had to be evidence of that somewhere—a trail to follow. They just had to find the beginning.

Thankfully, the victims’ families had all provided some contact information—phone numbers and known or last-known locations of the victims’ boyfriends at the time of the murders. All of them had been suspects, but eventually all had been cleared when no physical evidence tied them to the crime. That fact only strengthened Griffin’s belief they were dealing with one killer.

It was a strong new thread to study and follow. Now, if he could just lose the sensation of the killer’s presence hovering nearby.

Initially, Griffin had hoped to talk with the detective on Megan Atha’s case after arriving in Wilmington, but when he called the station soon after landing he found out the detective had retired and moved to Amelia Island about three months back. He was gracious enough to speak with them by phone, though, and an officer at the precinct let them look through Megan’s official case file. It was helpful but didn’t offer anything new in the way of leads. As they entered the station in Topsail, Griffin prayed Julie Goss’s case would be different.

Topsail was a small beach town about an hour northeast of Wilmington and about seven hours south of Baltimore. Griffin’s family had spent a week every summer on its fine shores growing up. It saddened him to think one of the Shore Killer’s victims had been found on those same shores.

The intake officer directed them to the desk of the detective who handled Julie’s case. “Detective Cullen?”

“That’d be me,” Cullen said with a smile.

The detective stood. He was a little over six feet tall, had a swimmer’s build, short blond hair, deep blue eyes, and a tan.

“Hi, I’m Detective McCray and this is my wife”—he rested his hand on the small of Finley’s back—“Dr. Scott-McCray.”

“Right. Thanks for flying all the way out here to talk about Julie’s case. Being in a smaller precinct, our cases don’t typically garner much outside attention, but it sounds like Julie wasn’t the only victim of the killer, according to your call?”

“We don’t believe so.”

“Why don’t we head outside? It’s a bit quieter than in here and it’s a gorgeous day out.”

“Fresh air sounds amazing.” They’d been stuck in planes, rental cars, and police stations. And it really was a beautiful day.

Detective Cullen led them outside into the salty sea air that smelled wonderful, a moderate breeze blowing off the ocean, sand dunes rising in the distance.

“Julie Goss’s body was found about three blocks from here, on the sound side.” Detective Cullen pointed west. “I can show you, if you’d like.”

“That’d be helpful.” The more familiar they could become with the crime scenes, the better. So far they’d only found the dumping sites, though, never the location where the murder itself took place. It was possible the victims had been killed near the water before being dumped, but Griffin had a strong sense that the killer murdered the women in barns—since barn had been among Burke’s key words—and then moved their bodies to the water. He wondered if the killer studied the currents to ensure the bodies washed up on shore. Did the killer want his work to be discovered? Did he want the world to see what he’d done? Was it some perverse need to show off his work? Or had he been unlucky, wanting the bodies to remain submerged, but they rarely did?

Detective Cullen led them across the two-lane road, the traffic light this time of year due to the lack of mainlanders, according to the detective. They proceeded down a side road and through the tall grass surrounding the marshy area leading up to the sound.

“Watch your step, Dr. Scott-McCray,” Cullen said.

“Finley, please, and thanks.” She held Griffin’s hand, her bright pink ballet flats tiptoeing around the wet sand blanketing the shore.

“You’re welcome, and call me Dirk,” he said.

Like Griffin’s favorite fictional character from Clive Cussler’s novels, Dirk Pitt.

“Dirk it is.” Finley smiled, glancing back at Griffin. She’d no doubt caught the connection.