“What lines of investigation are you working on right now?” Malachi asked.
“Searching for Helen? We’ve got her computer and we’re following up on the online dating angle. That was Peters’s case,” he said, and hesitated. “It might be mine now. We’ve gone through the cell phone records on the others, tried to figure out if there was someone they were meeting. We’re retracing their steps. And we’re still waiting for lab reports from Forensics, although the autopsy procedures have been completed on Ruth Seymour, Rupert Holloway and Felicia Shepherd.”
“Do you have any suspects?” Malachi asked.
“No—not a one. We have our tech guys working on tracing the men Helen Long met through the online dating service, as I said. That’s it. We don’t have anything solid. Ruth Seymour checked into her B and B, and no one remembers seeing her after. She was a tourist, of course, and wouldn’t be known by locals, but we’ve had her picture all over. Same with Rupert Holloway. He was due at a meeting at a restaurant on the riverfront. He never made it. Felicia Shepherd left her apartment, presumably to go to class. She said goodbye to her roommate—and that was it.”
“They disappeared on foot, right?”
“Yes. Felicia’s car was in her parking space at the complex, Rupert Holloway’s was in the garage at the hotel, Ruth Seymour’s car was in the drive at the B and B.”
Ten minutes later they left the station. They were in Malachi’s car heading back toward the Dragonslayer. He drove an Explorer, and while the interior was clean, it looked as if he’d driven on some rough roads.
“So what now?” Abby said, flipping through her files.
“First, I’m getting dry clothes.”
“Oh!” She’d forgotten that he must be sodden; he hadn’t had anything other than a towel provided by one of the crime scene techs. “Yes, you must be miserably wet.”
“I’m almost dry but I feel like my clothes are glued to my skin. If you don’t mind, we’ll stop by my hotel. I’ll only be a minute.”
“Where are you staying?” she asked.
“The 17hundred90 Inn and Restaurant,” he replied. “Hey, it’s supposed to be one of the most haunted in Savannah.”
Abby nodded. “I love the bar area and the restaurant. There’s a great fireplace—nice to sit around on a chilly night. The house was actually built in 1820, but that was a disastrous year for the city. A fire wiped out half of it and an epidemic of yellow fever killed whole families, so I guess someone liked 1790 better and used that year to name the place. The ghost of Anna haunts it, you know.”
“Anna, who threw herself from the window when her lover deserted her,” Malachi said. “In my room—204. Hey, I knew I was staying down here. Might as well go for an intriguing room.”
“Have you seen Anna?”
“No, not yet,” he told her. “Well, other than the fact that the owners have a fantastic sense of joining in with the city fun. There’s a mannequin of her in the window. I pass her every time I come in and out of the room.”
“The tour guides love it when they go by,” Abby agreed.
Malachi managed to find parking quickly. Abby went into the bar while he walked up to his room. As she entered, she realized that she was still in pirate attire—a number of stares came her way, and before she could get far, a couple of children asked to have a picture taken with her. She complied and finally entered the bar. A friend of hers was bartending and laughed as she explained that she hadn’t had time to change. She noticed that a lot of people were talking about the situation in the city in hushed voices. The media was broadcasting the fact that another body had been found by the river.
Abby ordered a cup of tea to sip while she waited. Locals frequented the bar and met visitors to the city there.
She didn’t particularly want to become involved in a conversation right now and took her tea to one of the plush chairs near the fireplace, the folder with notes from David in her hand. When she looked through them, she discovered the autopsy reports on all but the newest victim. The women, she saw, had engaged in sexual activity before their deaths, but whether it had been coerced or consenting, the M.E. had not been able to determine. The bodies had been too compromised. No fluids had been recovered, so DNA matches from semen wouldn’t be possible.
She frowned, reading that. If a serial killer was a rapist as well, it seemed strange that he’d chosen a male victim. She leafed through the next report, and learned that the male victim, Rupert Holloway, hadn’t shown any signs of sexual assault.