“Yeah, I guess. Maybe just a bit larger. I thought you liked Wickenburg.”
“Bah. At first it seemed wonderful. A peaceful, small town, a place where everyone knows everyone and people say hello to each other in the street. Sounds ideal, huh?”
“I don’t know about ideal, but it sounds nice, I guess.”
“The thing you have to understand, Tatum, is that when everyone in town knows each other, everyone also has an opinion about each other. And those opinions stick and sometimes spread. You get into one small argument with your neighbor, everyone knows about it. If your kid gets into a fight in school, it’s suddenly everyone’s business. And these things don’t go away—they accumulate. I was Marvin Gray when I got there, and by the time I left, I was Marvin Shouted-at-the-Town-Meeting-That-One-Time-and-Always-Argues-with-the-School-Principal Gray.”
“That’s a long name,” Tatum said. “Was Dad such a problematic kid that you had to argue with the principal?”
“He was a teenager. Occasionally, he was a bit stubborn. And he could never keep his mouth shut.” Marvin grinned, like he always did when talking about Tatum’s dad. “He was a good kid. But everyone formed their opinions about him. Never gave him a real chance when he grew up.”
“Guilty until proven innocent, huh?” Tatum said slowly, sipping his tea.
“That’s right.”
Tatum stared at the mug in his hand. “I might have to go away for a day or two,” he said. “This time, don’t trash the house, please.”
CHAPTER 60
Maynard, Massachusetts, Wednesday, July 27, 2016
Nathan Price, the Maynard chief of police, was a gray-haired man with a weathered, ruddy face. He was wide shouldered and lean, an outline of muscles visible underneath the uniform. He inspected Tatum with an alertness and suspicion that could only come from dozens of years of political struggles. Tatum leaned comfortably in a chair designed to be anything but hospitable and smiled disarmingly. He was tired. The night flight from Washington to Boston had hardly left him any sleep time, but that was the earliest flight he’d been able to get. Mancuso wanted him back next week, and he had little time to waste.
“How can I help you, Agent Gray?” Chief Price asked.
“I’m interested in a few murders that took place in Maynard some time ago,” Tatum said.
Chief Price nodded. “I assume you’re talking about Beth Hartley, Jackie Teller, and Clara Smith.”
Tatum raised an eyebrow. “How did you know?”
“This is a peaceful town, Agent Gray. We don’t have that many murders, and I doubt you came to talk to me about the Mill Pond murder back in 1953.”
Tatum nodded. “You’re right, of course. I wanted to ask you a few questions about the so-called Maynard serial killer. I understand you were the officer in charge of the case back then?”
“That’s right,” Chief Price said. “But we were all deeply involved. As you can imagine, we left no stone unturned when trying to find the killer.”
Until you had a suspect. Tatum nodded cordially. “Of course. The murderer was never brought to trial—is that correct?”
“That’s correct. Our primary suspect had been arrested a few days after killing Clara Smith and committed suicide while incarcerated.”
“And the killings stopped,” Tatum said, noticing how easily the chief had said the suspect had killed Clara Smith.
“Well, naturally.”
“Can I ask you a few questions about specific details of the case?” Tatum asked, retrieving the three case files he had in his briefcase.
The chief’s eyes widened in surprise as he saw Tatum opening the top case file. The picture of Clara Smith’s body was on top.
“I . . . of course. I’m not sure if I’ll remember. It’s been almost twenty years—”
“Well, it was the only murder case you ever investigated,” Tatum said. “Surely you remember most of it.”
“Probably, yes.”
“Okay. So during your main suspect’s interrogation, it turned out he was in the library the day Clara Smith was killed.”
“Yes,” Chief Price said. “I remember.”
“Now the estimated time of death as determined by the medical examiner was . . . between six and seven p.m. Manny Anderson was in the library until four.”
Chief Price held his hand out, and Tatum gave him the file. The chief scanned it and said, “Yes, that’s right.”
“But Clara Smith had been missing since two, when she didn’t come home from school.”
“We don’t know she was missing,” Chief Price said. “She just didn’t return home. She could have gone to a friend’s house.”
“Her mother called all her friends, and no one knew where she was, right? That’s why you organized a search party.”
The chief’s eyes narrowed. “You talked to a few people about this case,” he said.
“I have,” Tatum said. “On the phone. But I wanted to see you in person.”
“What we think happened,” the chief said testily, “is that Clara had a boyfriend her mother didn’t know about. She went to see him after school. On her way back home, she was grabbed by force or coerced by Manny Anderson. He took her into a secluded spot where he raped and finally strangled her to death.”
“But you never found this supposed boyfriend,” Tatum said.
“No.”
“So you can’t be sure what Clara was doing between the time she left school and the estimated time of death.”
“We can’t,” the chief said. He had shifted to single syllables, a sure sign Tatum was getting on his nerves.
“Okay,” Tatum said. “Just one more question and then I’ll let you go back to your work. I noticed the medical examiner’s report, with the time of death, was dated two days after the murder took place.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But in the Beth Hartley and Jackie Teller murders, it was dated merely hours after the murder. Is there a reason for the delay?”
“I can’t really say,” the chief said. “Maybe she was just busy—”
“At a time like this? When all of you ‘left no stone unturned’?”
“What does it matter what time she did the paperwork?”
“I agree.” Tatum nodded, grinning. “It’s just paperwork, right?”
“Right. We had a murder investigation on our hands. Everyone was stressed—”
“Desperate to find a suspect,” Tatum said.
The chief twisted his mouth in clear distaste. “Desperate to find a killer, Agent Gray.”
“That too,” Tatum said, standing up. “Thank you for your time, Chief Price.”
The chief glowered and stayed silent as Tatum nodded at him and left the office.
CHAPTER 61
Zoe had to admit that her home office had begun to look like the rooms of some of her subjects. Every image from the four crime scenes in Chicago was hanging on the wall, as well as images from the 2008 killings. She had a map of Maynard and a map of Chicago, both marked with the locations of the murders. Various articles from her Maynard serial killer scrapbook spotted the wall as well. She had purchased two whiteboards and filled them with all of the victims, both from Maynard and from Chicago, listing their names, ages, professions, and times and locations of disappearance. She stopped herself before she began tying bits of strings between things that seemed connected.
It was, perhaps, a good time to find a real hobby.
The room had a single bed, for when Andrea decided she wanted to crash at her apartment. Zoe had nodded off on it the night before. She had woken up in the morning surrounded by crime scene photos and case files. After orienting herself, she returned to work, trying to connect the dots, fill in the missing time between 1997 and 2016.