“Well, either someone made a mistake today or someone made a mistake back then. Which do you think is the more likely scenario?”
“Honestly? I think—” He stopped. “All right. I’ll play. But who was the child we found, if it wasn’t Kaylie Rousch? Because trust me, I was there when we pulled what was left of her body from the earth, and there was only one little girl who was missing from the area who matched her description.”
“I don’t know the answer to that. We have another problem. We have reason to believe Rousch was the one behind Timothy Savage’s murder.”
Thurber got quiet, his dark eyes watchful. “What gives you that impression?”
“The man had been strangled. The woman’s DNA was on his face. You do the math. And this story gets weirder. Savage wrote a letter to a friend of mine, Dr. Samantha Owens—”
“I know of Dr. Owens. She’s from Nashville, is a friend of a friend here at the Bureau. She was involved in the case of the Pretender, that freak serial killer who had acolytes across the country reenacting the famous serial killers—Son of Sam, the Zodiac and the Boston Strangler. She was kidnapped and injured, if I recall correctly.”
“That’s her. She’s a professor at Georgetown Med School now. Savage wrote her and asked her to solve his murder, and to autopsy his body. She’s in Lynchburg. She posted him this morning, and that’s where we found the Rousch girl’s DNA. Do you know a man named Rolph Benedict, or a woman named Ellie Scarron?”
“I know them both. Of them, at least. Benedict represented Gillian Martin, the murderer who went free. And Ellie Scarron is famous in her own right, married to Arthur Scarron, the oil magnate. Before he died, of course. Why? Are they involved in this?”
Fletcher ran a hand across his forehead. “Benedict was murdered last night here in D.C., and someone tried to kill Mrs. Scarron this afternoon. Both were garroted. And Timothy Savage left you a thousand dollars in his will.”
Thurber’s voice grew louder. He was losing patience. “What kind of game is this, Detective Fletcher? I have no idea who that man is.”
“It’s not a game. It’s very serious. People are dying, and if you ask me, it’s got something to do with Kaylie Rousch. And I think she’s tied to your current case.”
“Rachel Stevens?”
“We can’t rule it out.”
Thurber shook his head. “I can’t believe I’m hearing her name now, after all this time. That case haunted me. Still does. And now you’re saying we got it wrong?” He stretched his shoulders, as if he’d come to some sort of decision. “I take it you’re asking for my help? We—Agent Blake and I—we can’t be deviated from this case. As much as I’d like to sideline back to Rousch, our primary goal must be recovering Rachel Stevens. We’ll have to get another team in to deal with this. We’re gonna have to get that body exhumed, too. Jesus, her parents. The mother was a piece of work. Someone will have to talk to them. And—”
“Hold on. Before you slough this off on someone else, tell me something. Why would a man connected to Kaylie Rousch leave you a thousand dollars? You sure you’ve never heard of Timothy Savage?”
“I’ve never heard of him before now. I have no connection to him.” But something sparked in Thurber’s eyes, something like recognition, and Fletcher leaned closer.
“What is it?”
“It just hit me. Do you recall what Kaylie Rousch looked like when she was abducted?”
“Light red hair, blue eyes. The old photos I’ve seen show a slight resemblance to Rachel Stevens. I’m telling you, there’s a thread here. We need to follow it.”
Thurber gazed into the woods that backed the Stevens house. A muscle twitched in his jaw. “I don’t know what’s going on,” he said darkly. “But I don’t like this at all.”
Fletcher’s phone dinged with a new text. It was from Sam, telling him she’d emailed him Savage’s autopsy photos. Thurber turned to go into the house, but Fletcher stopped him.
“Do me a favor, take a quick look at these. It’s from Savage’s autopsy this afternoon.” He handed Thurber his phone and opened the email. The first shot was a full facial profile of the dead man. Thurber took one look and dropped the phone on the concrete patio, shattering the screen.
“What the hell, man?” Fletcher bent down and grabbed the damaged phone and stood to see Thurber’s face was white as milk, and he was swaying like he was about to faint. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Because I have,” Thurber said. “Jesus, let me see the picture again.”
Fletcher handed him the cracked phone, his heart starting a drumbeat tattoo.
Thurber stared at the photo, eyes wide with disbelief. “I can’t believe it.”
“So you do know Timothy Savage, after all.”
Thurber looked up, his blue eyes blank. His voice was ragged. “That’s not Timothy Savage. That’s Special Agent Douglas Matcliff. He was my partner. On the Kaylie Rousch case. He’s been missing for over ten years.”
Chapter