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working already knew about Palmer’s death. No one could claim PWCPD’s rumor mill wasn’t functioning.
The homicide detectives were set up in low-walled cubicles to encourage ease of communication. She found Trent sitting at the desk in the space next to hers. He was absorbed reading something on his computer. She sat down at her desk and said to him, “How did you make out?”
He slowly looked over at her, taking his gaze from his monitor. “I’ve uncovered a lot.”
“Hit me.” She leaned back in her chair and swiveled. Nerves. She grounded her feet and stopped the rocking.
“Where to start?”
“Webb’s murder.” By far that was what she was most curious about, followed by what Palmer’d had on his person and immediate possession at the time of his incarceration, and then next of kin. She’d take whatever he had.
“Open case.” Trent pushed back from his desk and joined her in her cubicle. “As CSI Blair told us, Webb was taken out by a gunshot, but not before he was tortured. All of his fingernails were removed, and he was burned with a cigarette on his chest and arms.”
Trent gave her a few color prints of the crime scene. She’d never been squeamish, but CSI Blair had been on the mark when she said the crime scene was a bloody mess.
“Looks like a slaughterhouse,” she said as she shuffled through the images, taking in the slashed photos and cushions—unmistakably tossed. “I’d say whoever killed Webb was definitely after something, and the knowledge of whatever that was might have gone with him to the grave. Who were the detectives on the case?”
“Bishop and some guy named Jonah Reid.”
“Bishop?” she pushed out. Cud. Unbelievable. Had he purposely not mentioned Webb’s murder at Denver’s Motel last night or not seen the connection? She popped her head up, but Bishop wasn’t at his desk. If he were, she’d be asking him why he’d failed to share that tidbit of information. “I don’t know Jonah Reid.”
“Looks like he just had a brief blip with PWCPD. He was only here for a few months and then transferred out not long after Webb’s murder.”
It must have been during the time she’d been healing and isolating, but cops came and went all the time.
“Were there any suspects in Webb’s case?” If the two did turn out to be connected, it might give them a place to start.
“No, but you’ll find this interesting. Webb’s murder is connected with another one. Ballistics matched to another cold case in Atlanta, Georgia, which took place a few days before Webb’s.”
She straightened up. “Georgia?”
“Yeah. A twenty-one-year-old stripper by the name of Casey-Anne Ritter.”
She got up and rounded her chair. “So two murders… or three?”
“Well, technically we don’t know the manner of Palmer’s death—” He stopped there under her gaze.
“Was this Casey-Anne tortured too?”
“Not exactly. Now, the medical examiner concluded that she’d hit the back of her head, likely from a push to the floor. She was found naked in her apartment bathroom.”
“Was she raped?”
“No evidence to confirm that, but she was shot point-blank to the middle of her forehead, just like Webb.”
“Huh. Both shot execution style. Not exactly matching what happened to Palmer,” she said, deep in thought. Maybe she really was reaching to see a link between the cold cases and Palmer’s death.
“Not entirely, I agree, but what about Palmer’s bag? We can’t dismiss that someone was looking for something from this Georgia woman and Webb. Maybe it was in Palmer’s duffel?”
“So does Ritter tie back to Dumfries or just to Webb?” Amanda was still intrigued by the murders.
“I don’t know, but I did a database search for Casey-Anne Ritter. No hits that are remotely close to matching that name. There are other Casey-Anne Ritters out there, but none line up for age.”
“Okay, that has my attention. She must have been—what?—using a fake name and living off the grid.”
“My guess.”
“Still doesn’t give us any sort of link to Dumfries.” Her mind was spinning, and she grabbed onto her next thought. “Was Ritter’s apartment rummaged?”
