The suspect opened the door. Looked from one of them to the other, trepidation on his face. “Do you have . . . is there more news?”
“I’m afraid you’re the news,” Mark said grimly. The police officer stepped forward, cuffed one of the man’s wrists. “David Willard, you are under arrest for the murder of your daughter, Kelsey.”
“How can you be a buzzkill even after breaking the biggest case in BCI history? C’mon, look lively.” Sloane snapped her fingers in Mark’s face, then danced away as airily as a full-size Tinkerbell. “We just brought down the Ten Mile Killer, responsible for nine homicides that we know of.” She waved her hand at the row of pictures on the wall. “And maybe these other six, as well.”
Mark couldn’t summon her level of euphoria. The initial adrenaline that had preceded the arrest had drained, leaving only bleak sobriety. After the first few initial protestations of his innocence, Willard had fallen silent except to ask for his attorney. He wouldn’t be answering any questions, Mark knew. They’d build the case against the man piece by piece.
But the one bit of DNA evidence found with Kelsey’s body would be impossible for even the most talented defense attorney to explain away.
“This isn’t done.” His stomach rumbled, and for the first time, he realized he hadn’t eaten that night. Neither of them had. “We need more to tie him to this case. And then we have to start linking him to the others.” And that would be the real challenge, Mark knew. Memories faded. Witnesses moved away. “He’s got a bargaining chip in Whitney DeVries.” At the mention of the girl, Sloane’s expression sobered. “If we have him in custody, how long does she stay alive? And what kind of deal will the special prosecutor be willing to make, in exchange for him telling us where he’s keeping her?”
She dropped to the edge of the bed, considering. “They might deal on DeVries if she’s found alive, but he’d still go down for killing his daughter. And if he gives us the girl, we’d have his place of operation. Probably plenty of DNA there from his other victims.”
And if he didn’t give up the girl, she’d die of thirst within days. His gut twisted. David Willard had likely been lying to him all along. About the hotel-room reservations that hadn’t been turned in as charges on his company’s account. About how his fingerprints got in the lake house. About his nonexistent alibis when Kelsey and Whitney had gone missing.
Willard and Mikkelsen. The two men Luther Sims had mentioned. The profiler had never been satisfied with either of their stories. They’d been loose ends. Except now one of those loose ends had been clipped.
“I’m sort of sorry that I’ll never get a look inside that old church in Tillgy Springs. If ever a place looked perfect to house a serial killer, it was there. Most of its windows are boarded up, but the ones in the basement look like there are still curtains on them. No one seems to be taking care of the property. The grass and brush are overgrown.”
She’d told him about her unsuccessful mission there on the way back from the police station, but his focus had been elsewhere. “You couldn’t find out who had the keys to it in town?”
Sloane shook her head. “The sheriff didn’t have a clue. The owner of the newspaper is making more calls. But I told you that already.”
He looked at the pictures again. Whitney DeVries, whose precious remaining time was ticking away. The other unverified victims who might never get closure.
“Maybe Mikkelsen knows.”
She made a scoffing sound and got up to put her boots on. “And he’d be happy to tell us, right?”
“Possibly. I think he knew about Newman’s photography sideline. That he used the knowledge to blackmail him into a monthly payment and doing the custodial work for free.”
“From what you’ve told me, that sounds less like the pastor and more like his lovely wife. I got a look at her watching us through the window as we left the church.” She slipped into her coat and buttoned it.
“You going somewhere?” Mark asked.
“We are.” She sent him a blinding smile. “Out to a celebratory dinner and at least one White Russian. We deserve that much.”
He wanted to refuse but from the feel of it, his stomach lining was devouring itself. “I could eat.” He got his coat. Started toward the door.
“She reminds me of that hatchet-faced movie actress that was in all those oldie horror shows I used to watch. Older, of course. I can’t place which one, though.”
Mark stopped midstride. “Who?”
“Mikkelsen’s wife. She looks like she might have been pretty once before she got joyless and bitter, you know what I mean?”
He turned back to look at the picture of Betsy Graves. And something buried deep in his subconscious clicked. “I think so.” Because he now knew exactly why Graves looked so familiar. He couldn’t place her before because he couldn’t recall the context, but he did now. He was almost certain of it. Almost. “I’ll drive. And buy,” he squashed Sloane’s protest. “But first, we take a side trip.”
“Agent Foster.” Luther Sims looked surprised when he opened the door, before swinging it wider in invitation. “Come in.”
Mark stepped inside. Wiped his feet on the hooked rug he remembered from his first visit. He saw the man glance beyond him at the car in the drive but knew he couldn’t see Sloane inside it. “I’m on my way to Columbus, and you’re not far out of the way. Thought I’d stop in to give you a quick update on the case.”
Pleasure spread across the retired agent’s face. There were two large Band-Aids on one of his cheeks that hadn’t been there the last time they’d spoken. “I appreciate that. I don’t get many opportunities to talk shop anymore. You know your way back to the kitchen. Let me just shut my wife’s door so we don’t disturb her.” As he moved to the right side of the hallway, Mark threw a quick glance to the left where the family room was. The TV was off, but there was a book lying across a closed laptop next to the recliner. The array of pictures was still on the wall.
Including the photo of Elizabeth Sims. Young. Unsmiling. But nearly identical to the one of Betsy Graves.
As certain as he’d been earlier, it was almost a shock to see the verification. Greg Larsen had been right. Betsy Graves had been the TMK’s first kidnap victim. Her body had never been found because she was still locked in hell with the Ten Mile Killer. A mental image flashed through Mark’s mind of the glimpse he’d gotten of the woman’s gnarled hands the last time he was here. Rheumatoid arthritis, Sims had said.