“It does look similar.”
“No, I mean it’s exactly the same.” She stepped toward the screen. “The curls of the letter B look as if they were drawn before the straight vertical line, which is rare. And the letter O is started and finished on the left side each time, which you almost never see. It was the same at the crime scene today. You’ll want an expert to confirm it, but I’m almost positive these were written by the same person. Can I see the others?”
Metcalf displayed shots from the other crime scenes, pausing on the same scrawled message found at each one.
LOOK BEHIND YOU.
Each time the handwriting displayed the same telltale characteristics.
“They’re all the same,” Kendra said. “Just like the one we saw today. Even if someone had access to these, which is doubtful, it would have been tough to reproduce with such precision. Unless it was the same person.”
Metcalf nodded. “I see what you mean.”
Kendra’s eyes narrowed on the screen. “Hold on. Let me see some more shots of this room. Are there any in this record?”
Metcalf displayed several other crime scene shots until Kendra stopped him. “There!”
It was a picture that showed more of the room and less of the bloody corpse. Kendra squinted, her eyes searching for details. “This victim was a swimmer.”
“His name was Daryl Lanton.” Metcalf joined her at the screen. He slowly nodded. “Swim goggles hanging from the desk lamp.”
“And nose clips on the side table. Plus, look in the mirror. It’s reflecting a poster from the back wall.”
Metcalf stared at it for a moment. “Is that—?”
“Michael Phelps. The victim was a fan like pretty much every other swimmer in the world.”
“Shit,” Metcalf whispered as the realization hit him. “Those objects at the crime scene today…”
Kendra nodded. “The underwater sport watch and earplugs most likely belonged to a swimmer. Maybe this guy.”
“This murder was six years ago. You think the killer’s been sitting on the stuff all this time?”
“There’s one way to find out. Contact Oxnard PD and see if we can get contact info for his next of kin. We can send pictures of the objects.”
“There’s a better way,” Metcalf said. He checked his watch. “Flights go up there every hour.”
Kendra turned toward him. “Seriously?”
“We can head out as soon as they come back with the objects. We can be back in time for dinner. Well, a late dinner. Are you up for it?”
Kendra nodded. This was something she’d always liked about Metcalf: no dawdling, no useless meetings, no wasted time.
“Yes. Let’s go.”
*
KENDRA AND METCALF WERE waiting in the building lobby for the team when they returned from the crime scene and after a three-minute consultation with Griffin, they took the class ring, earplugs, and diving watch, all encased in plastic evidence bags. A short United Airlines flight later, they landed in Ventura and rented a car. By four o’clock they were walking up the front sidewalk to a modest Oxnard home that belonged to Daryl Lanton’s parents.
Metcalf rang the doorbell. A plump woman in her mid-fifties answered the door. Her red face and puffy eyes made it obvious that she’d been crying.
Metcalf spoke gently as he flashed his ID. “Monica Lanton?”
She nodded silently.
“I’m special agent Roland Metcalf with the FBI. This is Dr. Kendra Michaels. I believe my colleague called and spoke to you?”
“Yes.” She gestured toward a set of wicker chairs arranged around a table on her front porch. “Would you mind if we talked out here? The house is kind of a mess.”
“Sure. Whatever is comfortable for you. We appreciate you giving us your time.” They moved across the porch and sat down.
“I’m sorry for our visit,” Kendra said. “I know it’s asking a lot for you to speak about your son, Mrs. Lanton.”
“Monica.” She shrugged. “Daryl’s never far from my mind, even after all these years. We keep a lot of his pictures around and all of his swim trophies … He’s always with me. Actually, it’s kind of nice to talk about him.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” Kendra said.
“My husband doesn’t like it when I bring him up. He says it hurts too much. But the hurt is there whether you put it into words or not. I’m not about to pretend I’ll ever forget him.” She moistened her lips. “But I have to admit, it knocked me for a loop when that other agent called to tell me you were coming. It reminded me that Daryl’s killer is still out there.” She gazed at Metcalf hopefully. “Or is he? Did you catch him? Is that why you’re here?”
“No,” Metcalf said. “But we may be closer than we’ve ever been.”
“Good. I thought you all had forgotten my Daryl. I’ve been afraid the police just gave up.”
“We looked at the file,” Kendra said. “The case had gone cold. When a serial killer just stops like he did, it’s often a sign that he’s dead or incarcerated for another crime.”
“That’s what the detectives told us.” Monica’s lips were trembling. “I’ve been afraid we’d never get answers. It should have never happened. But since it did, we should at least know why and who was responsible.”
“We realize that.” Kendra leaned forward. “Where was your son living when he died?”
“He had an apartment here in downtown Oxnard. He had just graduated from Stanford, and he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with his life. His entire existence had always been about swimming, even in college. After graduation, he was a little … lost.” Monica’s eyes suddenly went moist and dark as if she was peering into another time, another place. “Anyway, his friends started calling us when they couldn’t get hold of him. He wasn’t answering his phone or his door. His father and I had a key, so we went down there one morning.” Monica looked down at her folded hands on the table. “I … found him.”
“I’m very sorry,” Kendra said. “I know this isn’t easy for you. But can you tell us … Was anything missing?”
“From his apartment?”
“Or his person,” Metcalf said. “Something you noticed the killer may have taken from him.”
Monica thought about it. “Well … I was never able to find his class ring.”
Kendra and Metcalf glanced at each other.
She shrugged. “I accused the medical examiner of losing it, but the police assured me it wasn’t on any of his fingers. They had the pictures to prove it.”
Kendra reached into the canvas satchel she’d been holding from the moment they left the FBI offices in San Diego. She pulled out a clear plastic evidence bag that contained the ring they found at the crime scene only that morning. She displayed it to Monica. “Do you recognize this?”
Monica gasped. “That’s it. That’s his ring.” Tears ran down her cheeks again. “Can I … hold it?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t let you do that,” Metcalf said. “It’s evidence in another case, and we’re going to try and get DNA from it. But I’ll make sure you get it soon, okay?”
Monica nodded.