The Lonely Mile

Canfield sat for a moment pondering the question. “You have to remember, all of the other kidnappings were completed successfully. As far as we know, they all went off without a hitch, at least to the point that no one had seen the kidnapper get into his vehicle with any of his victims. Once inside the truck, he basically became invisible for the very reason we already discussed. Nobody notices those box trucks. They’re everywhere.”


“I suppose,” Bill said, still unconvinced. Then he shrugged. “So, what happens now?”

“We transmit this information as widely as possible and continue working the case. If this guy is still using his truck, we’ll get him. I like our chances. These slime balls are creatures of habit; they like to stick with what has worked for them in the past. Either way, though, we keep on keeping on. This is one more piece of evidence. A big one.”

“Did the search of the murdered school bus driver’s property turn up any usable evidence?”

“I really shouldn’t be discussing this with you.”

“Come on, I bought you a latte; that’s got to count for something at 5:30 in the morning.” He didn’t mention last night because she probably didn’t want to hear it. Bill supposed he couldn’t really blame her.

She smiled. “Fair enough. I can tell you this much. We found plenty of prints on the stolen car the guy used to get to her house and to dispose of her body. They were all over the steering wheel and gearshift, as well as on the door handle and the trunk.”

“That’s encouraging.”

“Well, yes and no,” she answered. “Incredibly, there’s no match in the system that we’ve been able to find. This guy’s never been in the military and he’s never been convicted of any crime, as far as we can tell. So the prints will help us convict him when we finally catch him, but they’re useless to us in terms of actually running him down.”

Bill was incredulous. His voice hitched as he pictured Carli, alone and afraid. “This guy kidnaps and murders teenage girls, and he has no criminal record?”

“I know it’s hard to believe. It was hard for us to swallow, too. It is unusual but it’s not unheard of. Some people with severe sociopathic tendencies are able to function in society relatively normally for years before giving in to their most destructive urges.”

“Convince me Carli’s still alive, Agent Canfield.”

She was silent for a moment. “She’s alive,” the agent answered, placing her hand on Bill’s arm as he grasped his cup on the table. He felt an electric charge run through his body at her touch and wondered whether she felt it too. “I’m going to tell you something in addition to what I said at your apartment, but if I do, you have to understand it’s just a theory.”

“Of course. I promise. You can trust me, Angela,” he said, referring to more than just the case.

“The media has been trumpeting this whole ‘I-90 Killer’ thing for years, but we believe he might be into something else.”

“Like what?”

“What do you know about human trafficking, Bill?”

“Sexual slavery. I’ve had my suspicions about that since reading the I-90 Killer’s letter.”

“That’s right,” Canfield agreed. “It can be an extremely lucrative undertaking, especially where young, pretty, American teenage girls are concerned.”

“He’s kidnapping girls and—what? Shipping them out of the country? To whom? Where do they go?”

“Our theory,” Canfield said, “is that he is just one link in what is probably a very extensive chain of conspirators. We believe he started out as a kidnapper, and, in the beginning, he did sexually assault and murder his first couple of victims. We found their remains, so we know that to be true.” Bill winced and she said, “Sorry. Would you rather I not go on?”

He shook his head. “I need to hear this.”

“That’s what I thought. Somewhere along the line, this disturbed man who was kidnapping and murdering teenage girls was co-opted by players much bigger and more frightening than he. How this connection was made and how extensive the ring is, we don’t know. But now we think he satisfies his compulsion, taking the girls and probably getting some sort of time limit within which he can enjoy them in his own way as long as he doesn’t damage them irreparably, then he passes them along to a contact, who smuggles them out of the country, probably to buyers in Russia or the Middle East.”

“Oh my God, that makes me sick.” Bill’s hand shook and coffee slurped over the side of the ceramic cup, overflowing the saucer and pooling on the scarred and chipped table.

“I know it’s hard to hear,” Canfield said gently, “but the thing you should focus on, and the reason I told you, is that we believe Carli is still alive, and just as importantly, is still in this general area. If we catch a break or two, like we seem to have done with your memory about the truck, we just might be able to nail this twisted bastard before Carli is shipped out of the country. If we don’t find her before that happens…” Her voice trailed off. There was no need for her to continue.

Bill hung his head, thinking hard as he tried to digest the implications of this information. Carli was alive. He held onto that nugget of hope like a drowning man clinging to a life raft. She was alive, and if she was alive, she could be saved. That was what he needed to focus on, not the horrifying scenario Angela Canfield had just laid out.

The FBI agent finished her coffee, setting the cup down on the table with a jarring clatter that sounded much too loud, echoing off the bare walls, vinyl flooring, and ceramic dinnerware in the empty restaurant. “I’ve got to get this information out to everyone in the field. Thanks for calling, Bill. It goes without saying that this is a huge break. If you think of anything else, let me know immediately. I would prefer if you only called me. It makes things easier to have just the one point of contact. Thanks for the coffee.”

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