But why would a man like Barbereaux risk everything to be with a fifteen-year-old Amish girl? He’s good-looking, relatively successful and financially established. The kind of man who could have his choice of females. Why would he choose Mary Plank?
That makes me think about motive. If Barbereaux was involved in an illicit relationship with a minor female, he would have a lot to lose if the relationship ever became public, especially if she turned up pregnant or appeared in pornographic photos. If she’d told her parents and they threatened to take the information to the police, he would be facing time in prison. But is that enough motive to wipe out an entire family? And what about the torture aspect?
I remind myself that Barbereaux has an alibi. But lovers have been known to lie to protect the one they love. I decide Glenda Patterson is the next stop on my list. I also make a mental note to check Barbereaux’s finances. A lot can be learned by the money people take in and spend.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something important. It’s there, floating around somewhere in my subconscious. But all I can see at the moment is white noise. My brain is tired and distracted. This case has reawakened some personal baggage I don’t want to deal with. Maybe because I see too much of my own past in some of the choices Mary Plank made, and that’s skewing my objectivity.
“What am I missing?” I say aloud.
This isn’t the first case that’s stumped me. Experience tells me when that happens to go back to the beginning. Look at the evidence again. Try to see it in a new light, regain an objective perspective. Pulling a fresh legal pad from my pencil drawer, I begin a stream-of-consciousness dump
DNA—semen inside Mary Plank’s body. Where is the fetus? Get DNA sample from James Payne. Talk to Glenda Patterson. Does Scott Barbereaux have an alibi for September 22? Check his finances. T.J.—IP addresses. Dark pickup seen near the Plank farm on the night of the murders. Run through names of vehicle owners again. Evelyn Steinkruger—Mary got into car. Nice car. New. Blue or black. Barbereaux drives a black Grand Am. Canvass downtown area near shop. ID the driver. Check with the bank down the street—do they have an ATM camera? Mary went to the park often for lunch with her lover. Did anyone see them? Canvass park. Her lover liked to take photos. Important? Glock—check area photographers and photo studios. Skid—keep an eye on James Payne. How does he spend his spare time?
As I stare down at my notes, something prods at the back of my brain. Some thought or theory that hadn’t yet congealed. I pull out the crime scene photos. I look at the bloody handprint on the jamb. The print in the living room. The instruments in the barn. Finally, I come to a single photograph of the three scuff marks on the dusty floor. I look at my notes and one line I’d written stands out like neon. Her lover liked to take photos. I stare at the photo, and I think: tripod.
“What’s up?”
I glance up to see Tomasetti standing at the door to my office. “I think he may have photographed or filmed the murders.”
“What?” He’s already crossing to my desk. “How do you know?”
I show him the photo of the scuff marks. “No one could figure out what made these marks. Mary wrote in her diary that her lover was into photography. I think the marks are from a tripod.”
Intensity tightens his features as he stares down at the photo. “Maybe that’s why the girls were tortured.”
“Jesus. A snuff film.” The words feel like rancid grease pouring from my mouth. They make me sick to my stomach. I flip over the photo of the instruments. “He left these behind.”
He stares at the photo, his expression unreadable. But his eyes are a little out of focus when he raises his gaze to mine, and I know this has brought back his own past, reminded him of the murders of his wife and children. My initial instinct is to reach out to him, but I don’t. I know him well enough to realize that while he might need sympathy, it’s the last thing he wants.
“I’ve got a contact down in Quantico,” he says after a moment. “I’ll give him a call, tell him to put his ear to the ground.”
I nod.
He gives me a grim look. “The FBI has never been able to authenticate a snuff film, Kate. Never. They’re an urban legend. A Hollywood invention.”
“Maybe this is a first.”
The muscles in his jaws flex. “I’ll make the call.”
The awful weight of this new possibility settles onto my shoulders with a crushing heaviness. I look down at my notes. “Did anything come back on Barbereaux?”
“One speeding ticket. Guy keeps his nose clean. Or else he’s careful.” He slides into the chair adjacent my desk.
“I’m going to talk to Barbereaux’s girlfriend to verify his alibi. Want to come?”
“Sure,” he says.
I’m reaching for my keys when Lois appears at my door. “Chief?” She’s wearing a gold pantsuit that clashes with her hair. “Evelyn Steinkruger is here to see you.”
Tomasetti shoots me a look. “Busybody from the shop?”