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Agent Brigham took the lead, walking purposely down the brick walkway toward the house. He didn’t know her, but rumor had it she was fearless. With her dark eyes narrowed and shoulders squared, he could believe it. At the front door, she lifted her fist and pounded on the surface. “FBI. We’re here to execute a warrant!”
Footsteps sounded from the inside before the door swung open. Maxwell Calder towered just beyond the frame. When he locked eyes on them, his posture stiffened. His lips curled in disgust. “What’s going on here?”
“We have a warrant to search the property, and to bring you in for questioning regarding the murder of Becca Murray. You have the right to—”
He stepped onto the entryway, eyes bulging. “The murder of… Christ, this is ridiculous. Do you know who I am?” A forcible breath pushed past his lips. “Judge Hutchins would never allow this.”
“I have two warrants that say otherwise, Mr. Calder.” Brigham had skirted around him and cuffed his wrists. His face deepened to an ominous shade of red.
“I’ll have your badges,” he bit out, spit flying from the corners of his mouth. “Every one of you.” He continued his verbal assault, voice rising as Brigham and Dawson led him to their vehicle.
With Calder out of the way, he and Nilsson cleared the house one room at a time, then spread out to search. Easton started with the downstairs office, boxing up the electronics. There was nothing of interest in the drawers or the wastebasket. He moved a stapler to the side to study a framed photograph of Calder and a young woman who shared no family resemblance. He remembered seeing her at the State Police Barracks working dispatch. Kinley would hate it, but the woman they all seemed so fond of needed to be questioned. The kitchen, bedrooms, and basement all revealed much of the same. Family photographs, knickknacks, and a child’s drawings preserved in labeled boxes.
“Anything?” he called to Nilsson from the room adjacent. Had someone tipped Calder off? There was nothing even remotely suspicious about the place so far.
“Just a bunch of creepy crawly stuff,” she yelled back.
He paused, and his pulse kicked up a notch. “Frogs?”
“Err… Yeah, actually. Some snakes. A lizard.” She stepped into the hall as he was coming toward her. “Take a look.”
The room was about the size of the first-floor office. Terrariums of various sizes lined one wall. “Batrachotoxin,” he muttered and peered in each tank.
“What?” Nilsson was at his side, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else than in the room they were standing in.
“The toxin used to kill the Becca Murray is found in Golden Dart Frogs. I’m no amphibian expert, but I think that little guy might be an accessory to murder.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think this case could get any stranger. I’ll let the team know they’re needed up here and fill Dawson and Brigham in on what we found,” Nilsson muttered as she exited the room to notify the evidence response agents. “Maybe that will get Calder talking.”
“I’ll search the attic.” He glanced up at the hatch door on the ceiling above and pulled the string to lower the fold-down staircase. The wood groaned beneath his weight as he tromped up to the top. He inhaled a quick breath and sneezed as layers of dust tickled his nose. An exposed lightbulb offered some visibility, but he took out his flashlight. The space was like any other attic. Cobwebs clung to exposed beams and worn boxes lined the corners and sides of the space.
He’d start with the boxes to his left and work his way around. The packing tape sealing the box was already peeling, and he stripped it off with ease. A child’s drawings, report cards, and reports written in wobbly print made up the contents. He moved to the next. After an hour of searching, all he’d found were discarded toys, a coin collection, and old textbooks. The glint of something gold caught his eye, and he shoved the cardboard boxes aside to get a closer look. Suddenly, the temperature seemed to drop and the hair lifted on the back of his neck. An antique trunk was wedged behind the boxes. He looked over his shoulder, unable to shake the sense of dread tossing in his gut. He unlatched the trunk and lifted the lid. Beneath sheets of dust were albums and a few framed photographs. With tentative hands, he lifted the first picture of three children. On the far left was Maxwell Calder when he was young, a frown darkening his features. To the right was a boy of the same height. His posture was slightly stooped, and despite his wide grin, Easton found no warmth in the child’s expression. Trapped between them was a little girl with pale hair and desperate eyes. His scalp prickled and he laid the picture to the side then grabbed an album. Breathing harder, he flipped through the pages of the book until he found what he was searching for. A different photograph of the three children. The yellowed corners had curled in, warping the image, but the cursive below was legible.
Max, Wayne, Janie - 1952
Janie. Those haunted eyes. The pieces were starting to come together, one sickening click at a time. Bile churned in his stomach. They’d just found the Kingston Town Killer’s sixteenth victim—and his trigger.
