Savich remembered thinking someone had been standing in the master bedroom window at Gatewood, looking out over the water, waiting for Victor to return. He didn’t know what to think. Until he could figure this out, better to keep it to himself. He said, “That could be, Sala. It’s been bothering me, too.”
Ty took a sip of her coffee and looked out at the lake again. She didn’t think she’d ever see it in the same light she had before Friday morning. She could picture Octavia Ryan’s body floating among the bones and skulls lying on the bottom, many of them covered by years of sand and reeds. She said, “The only real clue we have so far about all those bones is that gold belt buckle. We have to hope we’ll get a call identifying it when Dillon shows it on TV.”
Sala scooted his chair a bit closer and propped his feet on the deck railing. “I remember a Serial in Boston who murdered twenty-four people—maybe more, no one knows—over about nineteen years. One night a young punk stole his Prius from his driveway, decided to take it for a joy ride. When he brought the car back, he decided to see if there was anything worth stealing in the trunk, and he found a body wrapped in a shower curtain. Thankfully, after puking up his guts, he called the cops.”
Ty said, “Who was the Serial?”
“A newspaper editor, well respected, married, lived what you call a normal life. They found his souvenirs in a locked cabinet in his basement.”
“What happened to him?”
“He put a gun in his mouth when the cops moved in. I guess what I’m saying is it’s not always excellent police work that cracks serial cases. It’s happenstance, a snitch, or most of the time, as you know, an errant parking ticket—remember how they caught the Son of Sam? Or, in this case, it was a joy-riding juvenile delinquent.”
Sala slept for three hours that night in Ty’s guest bedroom before the nightmares pulled him under. Ty found him sweating and heaving, and without a word, the two of them dragged the mattress out on the deck. They settled in and watched the moon hovering over Point Gulliver, watched dark clouds drifting in and out of the moonlight.
27
* * *
WILLICOTT, MARYLAND
MONDAY, NOON
Shops closed, and townspeople congregated in Bleaker Park in the center of Willicott, many seated on blankets, since the white-painted wooden benches had been nabbed early. It could have been the Fourth of July or another day of the book festival, except most of the people gathered looked deadly serious. Savich looked out at the hundreds of curious faces, saw some of the adults handing out sandwiches to their kids. He wished parents hadn’t brought their families, not with the gruesome details he’d have to lay out. TV vans, camera crews, and anchors, most of them beautiful younger people, were already poking their mics into faces for comments. Everyone already knew about all the bones found in Lake Massey and the murder last Friday, but he supposed the news about the Star of David belt buckle hadn’t yet made it through their grapevine. The camera crews were ready, and they were going live. The regional TV stations would carry a special news bulletin, and, of course, a live stream on the Internet.
Savich waited for Willicott’s mayor, Robert—Bobby—Bleaker, namesake of his great-grandfather, who’d donated the park to the town after World War I, to finish his introduction, then stepped to the microphone set on a conductor’s stand in the middle of the quickly erected stage.
Mr. Maitland had decided Savich would do better without him. No reason to overwhelm. Savich spoke for twenty minutes, walked everyone through the murder of Octavia Ryan, the attempted murder of Agent Sala Porto, and the finding of the bones at the bottom of Lake Massey. He saw some of the parents put their palms over their children’s ears when he couldn’t avoid graphic descriptions. He told them what the FBI forensic anthropologists were doing, that it would take time. He didn’t say the phrase serial killer, but he didn’t have to. Every adult understood very well. They were afraid, and that was a good thing. They would take greater care now, of one another and their children.
Finally, Savich held up the Star of David belt buckle. The cameras zoomed in. He waited a beat, then said, “This belt buckle very possibly belonged to one of the people who was murdered and thrown into Lake Massey. As you can see, it’s large and made of gold and decorated with a Star of David. If you recognize it, please call the hotline appearing at the bottom of your screen.” He repeated the number twice and also announced the hotline number for Victor Nesser again. “We need your help. Thank you. Are there any questions?”
There were scores of questions, shouted all together, some of them planted by Savich. He wanted to be sure everyone present knew what he wanted them to know and set aside rumors that might actually hurt the investigation. When they started getting off topic, and one of the press actually asked about the environmental precautions they took while dragging Lake Massey, he closed it down. He repeated the phone numbers for both hotlines once again, thanked everyone for coming, then stepped away from the microphone. He watched the pandemonium of dozens of news people jumping on their cell phones, others madly typing on their laptops and iPads while they talked through headsets.
Ty was convinced the hotline would get a call quickly about the Star of David belt buckle, but it didn’t happen. Instead, there was a call about a Victor Nesser sighting in Peterborough, Maryland. Savich and Sherlock drove off to check it out themselves.
28
* * *
PETERBOROUGH, MARYLAND
Savich and Sherlock drove to Herm’s Crab Shack at the end of Clooney Street in Peterborough, a ramshackle diner in a semi-industrial area. Despite no air-conditioning and unappealing surroundings, the place was jammed. Two overhead fans lazily stirred the humid air in its one long room. The customers sat at family-size wooden tables set cheek by jowl on floors covered with sawdust. The smell of fried food filled the air. A buxom waitress, her broad face shiny with sweat, greeted them, turned, and shouted, “Frankie! Get yourself out here. The FBI wants you. It’s about the call your father told you not to make.”
Frankie Hooper was tall and skinny, maybe twenty years old, with the long arms of a basketball player. He threaded his way between tables to Savich and Sherlock, grinning hugely. They followed him out through the back of the restaurant into a tree-filled patio, past more people chowing down on fried lobster. They stopped beneath a full-leafed oak tree off to one side, happy for the shade. They didn’t need to get him started, Frankie spoke fast and low, like he was afraid he’d forget it if he didn’t spew it all out at once. “This young dude came in three hours ago, kinda early for fried lobster—that’s our specialty. My granny brought the recipe over from Maine when she married Granddad a thousand years ago. Anyways, I saw his face on TV at least a dozen times, so I knew what he looked like. He looked real seedy, like he needed a bath. Ma thought he looked like one of the students at the community college.” He paused, beamed at them, leaned forward. “I know it was him, Agents, that guy, Victor Nesser. I’m sure about that.”
“Describe him for us, Mr. Hooper,” Sherlock said, “other than his looking seedy.”
The description Frankie gave of Victor included only what he could have seen on TV. That was worrisome.
Sherlock gave Frankie her sunny smile. “Did he say where he was going?”
“Nope. He didn’t talk to anybody. He chowed down on three fried lobsters. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d burst himself wide open, he ate so much, and he ate really fast. And you gotta face it, fried lobster isn’t in one of the five food groups.”
Savich said, “Did he have a girl with him?”
That drew Frankie up short. He pondered, then brightened. “I’d forgot. Yeah, I remember now, she ate a fried lobster, too. She was taller than he was, not very pretty.”