Her Last Word

“Was he concerned that your parents might return?” Adler asked.

“I told him they’d be home any second, but he laughed. He said he’d been watching the house and knew Wednesday nights were their movie nights and they never returned home before eleven.” She raised her fingers to the base of her throat. “Several times he put his hands around my neck and squeezed, but he seemed to grow tired.”

“He underestimated how hard it is to strangle someone,” Quinn said.

Maureen nodded. “Yes, I think that is exactly it. If I had to bet, I’d say I was one of his first victims.”

“Any other reason to support that theory?” Adler asked.

“Even though he said he knew no one was coming to help me, he was nervous. His hands shook as he was tying mine to the headboard. And once a car passed by outside and he stopped, put his hand over my mouth, and waited until the street was silent again.”

“Your attacker wore a condom, correct?” Quinn asked.

“Yes. He also made me take a shower after the attack. He stood by the shower and made me wash my hair and wash my entire body. He was smart. The forensic nurse who examined me couldn’t collect any useable evidence.”

“When did you learn about Gina Mason?” Adler asked.

“It was hard not to hear about her. She was in all the headlines. I was obsessed about her case. It struck very close to home for me.”

“Two years after your attack, you were shown Randy Hayward’s mug shot,” Quinn said.

“I was. I couldn’t identify him.”

“Did you ever see Hayward in a lineup?” Adler asked.

“His attorney argued because I couldn’t ID his mug shot and because there was no DNA in my case, a lineup wasn’t warranted. A judge agreed.” She sighed. “I’m older now and can see my case from a cop’s perspective. The MO of my attacker was different than Gina Mason’s. My attacker attacked me in my home, and he let me go. Yes, he covered his face, but many guys like that do. It’s reasonable to argue we had different assailants,” she said, frowning.

“Why do you think your attacker let you go?” Quinn asked.

“After he raped me, he noticed a stuffed bear on my bed. He said he’d had a bear like that when he was a kid. He asked me if I’d named my bear. I told him its name was Buddy. That seemed to amuse him. I thought we had some kind of emotional connection and he maybe finally saw me as a person. Five minutes later he left.” She scanned both detectives as if they were suspects. “Why all the questions now?”

“Randy Hayward is back in custody and is willing to lead us to Gina Mason,” Adler said.

Maureen stared at them both closely. “What do you want from me?”

“You know, as well as we do, that guys like Hayward evolve,” Quinn said. “First stalking, then rape, and then murder. Serial offenders require more violence to get the same rush of adrenaline and sexual payoff.”

Maureen drew in a breath. “When is Hayward supposed to take you to Gina?”

“End of this week,” Adler said. “I don’t know if we can ever link Hayward to your rape, but I hoped you might be able to tell us something we could use.”

Maureen regarded him a moment. “After my rapist finished, I could tell he was worried about being captured. He climbed on top of me and put his hands around my throat again. Before he started to squeeze, I asked him if he’d named his stuffed bear. The question caught him off guard, and he released my neck and climbed off of me.”

“Did he tell you the name?” Adler asked.

“Charlie. He said his bear’s name was Charlie. Ask Hayward what happened to Charlie.”

Adler nodded. “Will do.”

“Keep me posted,” Maureen said. “Whether he’s my guy or not, that poor kid needs to be found.”

“We will,” Adler said.

They left Maureen Campbell and drove to Ruth Hayward’s home, but found the house closed up, the blinds drawn, and no cars in the driveway or garage.

“Think she’s left town?” Quinn asked.

“We’ll find her,” Adler said. “One way or another, we’ll talk to her.”

“She’s worried. Her kid is about to spill the beans, and she’s going to face a lot of questions,” Quinn said.

“What’s so special about Hayward? He has so many friends and family willing to protect him,” Adler said.

“He was young and charming. Mama’s boy. Everyone’s best friend. Psychopaths can be charming manipulators,” Quinn said.

“Nobody said they were stupid,” Adler said.

As Adler and Quinn made their way to his car, his phone buzzed with a text from a detective in a neighboring jurisdiction. Brad Crowley had returned home and realized the police were looking for him. He was ready to be interviewed.

“We don’t even know Erika is missing,” Quinn pointed out as she slid on her sunglasses. “She could be on a vacation.”

“You really think she’s on a vacation?” Adler asked.

“No. But we don’t have any evidence otherwise.”

“I want to listen in on the interview,” he said.

“I’d like in on it as well. I’ll try not to step on toes.”

A smile tugged at the edge of Adler’s lips. “Don’t kid yourself. You never miss a chance to stir shit up.”

She laughed. “Guilty. I’m a card-carrying provocateur.”

At the station, Adler and Quinn entered the room adjacent to the interview room. Through a two-way mirror, they saw Brad Crowley sitting in a plastic chair next to a scarred wooden table. Crowley wore charcoal-gray pants, a white shirt, and a yellow tie he’d loosened. His blond hair looked as if it had been slicked back but was now disheveled. His gaze downcast, he picked at a Styrofoam cup.

Detective Jeff Beck, a midsize, lean man, sported a blue suit and a full gray mustache reminiscent of the nineties. He stood outside interview room six sipping a cup of coffee.

Adler walked up to Beck and shook his hand. “Thanks for the call.”

“Hey, anytime.” Beck had taken a job with county police three years ago, but Adler and Beck had attended the city police academy together. Beck was one hell of a smart guy. They’d spent a few all-nighters studying for academy tests and had crossed paths during their uniformed patrol days more times than he could count. Each had attended the other’s wedding, and each commiserated when those marriages fell apart under the strain of the job.

“What’s his story?” Adler asked.

“He said he and his wife had an argument last week. He got angry, thought she was being unreasonable, and decided to split for a while.”

“He dropped everything just like that?” Adler asked.

“I checked with his office, and his secretary did clear his schedule at the last minute. She was supposed to tell everyone that he was attending a conference. She said he had a lot of pissed-off patients. Not everyone makes logical choices when they’re angry,” Beck said.

“Point taken.”

“Does he appear worried about his wife?” Quinn asked.

“More irritated and inconvenienced,” Beck said. “He thinks this is her way of paying him back because he took off.”

Adler studied Crowley through the two-way mirror. His shoulders were relaxed, and his expression oddly calm as he rolled a quarter over his fingers with practiced agility. This guy was far from stressed, or so it appeared. Even an innocent guy would be a little uncomfortable. He was trying too hard.

“I’d like to talk to him.”

Beck studied him. “Sure. Why not?”

“Thanks.”

“Tag team?” Quinn asked, grinning with anticipation.

Adler looked at Quinn. “Play nice.”

She shrugged. “Sure, might be fun to switch it up.”

Adler and Quinn entered the room. Quinn tossed a smile at Crowley and chose the seat closest to him. Crowley’s glance was dismissive and defiant until he looked at Adler. Anger flashed, and he rightly identified Adler as a threat.

Crowley kept his composure. “Do you have any news about my wife?”