Don’t Talk to Strangers: A Novel Read online

  “Looks like the department came down pretty heavy on the father after Tracy disappeared,” Meltzer said. “Checked him out up and down. He submitted to a polygraph back then and passed it. He’s back in jail. So is Tracy’s brother, Jeff. Nice family, huh?”

  “Maybe Jeff Davidson has remembered something. Someone he saw Tracy talking to, someone she confided in, a coach, a teacher, a counselor. He might have been afraid to talk at the time, protecting them both from his dad or the authorities. From what Josey said, it sounds like those kids were terrified they’d be removed from their home.”

  We pulled onto a dirt road. “I’ll arrange an interview for you,” Ken Meltzer told me. “He’s in our jail.”

  The sheriff slowed and turned right on a dusty lane. We passed unmowed fields, the milking barn I’d seen on satellite in the distance. Another barn that might have been a tractor shed was sun-bleached to light gray with a rusty, sagging roof. This land must have been a working farm at some point in its history. Not now. No animals. Not a chicken or a cow or a dog or a cat in sight. I have a deep and probably irrational mistrust of people who live without animals. Growing up, our house had been a revolving door for foster dogs and cats. It’s my normal.

  The house in the distance appeared no more cared for than the rest of the property. Drooping gutters were stuffed with debris. Paint chipped off the eaves. There was a filthy white van in the drive. Two cruisers with the sheriff’s star on the doors were parked near the house. Major Brolin was leaning against a late-model Crown Vic, a phone to her ear. Two uniformed officers stood in the driveway. Two more were standing on Lewis Freeman’s porch, duty belts loaded.

  The sheriff got out. I opened my door and reached for the business card I’d dropped. It was from the diner. There was handwriting on the back in big loopy, girlie letters. Molly 706-555-7367. I slipped the card back in the glove compartment and closed the truck door.

  Major Brolin met us with a nod in my direction so curt I wondered, not for the first time, why she had instantly disliked me. She fired off at the sheriff. No preliminaries. “Is this related to the murders, Sheriff? Because I interviewed this man myself. Twice. Once when Melinda disappeared and again when we found her body.”

  “Dr. Street believes the two offenders we’re visiting this morning are likely to reoffend, Major. I trust her judgment,” the sheriff told her. He kept walking. “So let’s connect them to the murders or exclude them entirely today. And from now on, we commit to regular inspections of registered sex offenders.”

  “Exactly how do you propose we do that, Sheriff?” Brolin wanted to know. “Detective Raymond and I have all we can handle already.”

  “I’m going to get you another investigator, for one,” he replied. “And we’ll pull a couple of units off the highway to handle rounds once a month. Relax, Tina, it’s job security.”

  He gave her the Meltzer smile and did not get one in return. She didn’t appreciate him using her first name in front of me. I was reasonably sure he knew that. Tires on gravel got our attention. I turned to see Robert Raymond driving up. He climbed out of his car and squinted at the day. He looked hungover. I know the look. I’ve had plenty of mornings like that. Brolin was watching him too. For a second her sour expression turned soft. Or maybe it was just the sun in her eyes.

  We stopped a few feet from the front porch. The sheriff motioned for his deputies to gather ’round. Raymond lumbered over smelling of cigarettes. “This man is a registered sex offender,” Meltzer began. “If we find anything in there that violates his parole—computers, weapons, child pornography, a joint, a seed or even a stem—we have the opportunity to put him where we don’t have to worry about him anymore. That would not break my heart.” A quiet ripple of laughter moved over the deputies. Brolin remained stone-faced. The officers responded to Meltzer. How she must resent that. “Additionally, we’re looking at Mr. Freeman for the murders of Tracy Davidson and Melinda Cochran. This is Dr. Street. She compiled the criminal profile you’ll be issued later.” The sheriff looked at me. “Dr. Street, you have anything you’d like to add?”

  “We have to think in practical terms about what someone would need in order to abduct, then successfully hold a prisoner for months,” I told them. One of the officers flinched. “The lab reports indicate the use of metal restraints. That means anchors, drill holes. Don’t forget to look up at ceiling studs. Are there interior rooms with key locks, padlocks, missing doorknobs? Check windows for signs they’ve been permanently closed or reinforced to prevent escape. Also, he’d have to make sure a meter reader or a UPS driver or friends and family wouldn’t hear even the faintest cry. Are there materials that could be used for soundproofing? Doesn’t have to be elaborate—drywall, molding around doors, sound panels.” I glanced at the van in his driveway. “Is there anything different about his vehicle? Have door handles been removed? Is the back partitioned off from the front? Predators ready their vehicles in case there’s an opportunity to reoffend. According to forensics, the murder weapon was heavy with a narrow head, an axe or a similar tool. Soil samples were collected from the crime scene, so you’ll want to bag shoes and the floor mats in the van along with any debris.”

  “Any questions?” the sheriff asked when I finished. No one answered. “Okay, let’s get started. Take your time. Be thorough. It’s a big place. Detective Raymond, I’ll need you to assist in the search.” The sheriff walked up the front steps, knocked on a door that had seen better days. It was a cop’s knock, loud, official. No answer. The sheriff knocked again. “Lewis Freeman, Hitchiti County Sheriff’s Department here.”

  It took several more knocks before we heard heavy footsteps inside. The smell of bacon and stale cigarette smoke rushed out when the door swung open. Lewis Freeman stared at us through the screen. He had a jowly face covered in stubble, was 250 pounds, with thinning brown hair and not enough height to pull off that kind of weight. The bags under his eyes, the puffiness, the ruddy complexion, the sheet mark running down his cheek told me he’d been sleeping hard. And he looked like he’d done a little drinking last night. Maybe most nights. “What’s wrong? My wife all right?”

  “Where is your wife, Mr. Freeman?” Major Brolin asked.

  “She took the boys to school and went to work like always. The boys okay?” He scratched his head, tried to blink away some fogginess.

  The sheriff opened the screen door and handed Lewis Freeman the search warrant. “My investigators are going to be searching your home, Mr. Freeman. Why don’t we all step inside. You look like you could use some coffee. We’ll join you.”

  Freeman looked confused. “What’s this about? Listen, I work third shift. I need sleep. I’m not even dressed.”

  We all glanced down at the navy boxer shorts with big, fleshy white legs sticking out. “I’ll go with you to get dressed,” Meltzer offered. He wasn’t leaving Freeman alone to destroy potential evidence.

  Meltzer followed Freeman down a hallway. I heard the sheriff telling him not to worry about his wife and kids. Two deputies came into the house with us. Two of them headed toward the big gray barn. Raymond started walking across the field to the sagging milking barn. Brolin and I stretched on gloves and stepped into a small, cluttered home. The windows were closed and the air-conditioning wasn’t running. The house was in the kind of disarray that comes from working parents with children—clothes, books, shoes. A Hot Wheels track ran through the living room and climbed over the couch.

  There was a foil-covered plate on the stove and a sink full of dishes. A pot with fresh water spots sat on a cool warmer with a sticky note that said Ready. I peeked under the foil and saw biscuits with cheese and eggs and bacon. “Someone loves him,” I said.

  Brolin flipped the switch on the coffeemaker. Made a little sseesh sound. “Takes all kinds, I guess.” I realized this was the nicest thing she’d said to me since we’d met less than twenty-four hours ago. She pulled open a drawer, moved utensils around, repeated this until she found the drawer everyone has in
their kitchen, the one that holds receipts and menus and owner’s manuals and twist-ties. She glanced over at me. “You can’t touch anything else,” she said. I held up both gloved palms. “I mean you can’t participate in the search,” she corrected herself.

  “Okay,” I said mildly. I wanted to tell her I knew things about evidence collection and chain-of-custody her skinny, crabby ass would probably never know. But I wasn’t going to let her push my buttons this morning.

  Sheriff Meltzer and Lewis Freeman came into the kitchen. Freeman was in jeans: fat-guy jeans that were pulled up around his wide waist and made everything from there down seem small. He was in the same T-shirt he’d worn to answer the door. Small blue-green eyes skirted the kitchen, landed on the brewing coffeepot, then fixed on Brolin, who was still standing at the counter looking through every scrap of paper in the drawer. I figured she knew that if they were going to find anything in Freeman’s home today, it would not be in the family kitchen. But it was doing a hell of a job of shaking up Lewis Freeman. Innocent or guilty, people don’t like strangers touching their stuff. I could see it unnerving Freeman. I had a feeling Brolin was enjoying it.

  Freeman walked past her and took a cup out of the dish drainer. The sheriff started talking about Tracy Davidson, about her good grades, about the way she took care of her little brother, that she was pretty and blond, that she’d disappeared just before Christmas that year.

  Freeman poured himself coffee and sat down at the table. “I told y’all last time I’d never even seen the girl in my life.” His T-shirt was wet under his armpits. An oniony sweat replaced the smell of bacon in the stuffy kitchen.

  “Where were you on December twenty-second, two thousand and three, Lewis?” Meltzer asked.

  Freeman gave a dry laugh. “Who the hell knows? You know where you were eleven years ago, Sheriff? Listen, I been married for fifteen years. I was probably sitting right here.”

  “You were married when you met Rebecca Forsyth online too,” Major Brolin said. “Remember her? She thought you were a fourteen-year-old boy until you lured her out to meet you in the park.” I looked at Brolin. She’d done her homework.

  “Yeah. I remember,” Lewis Freeman snarled. “There’s a big red dot on all those sex offender sites with my name and address because of that bitch.” He slurped coffee. In keeping with his refusal to accept responsibility for his actions, he blamed the victim for his offender status. I tried not to think about what it must be like for a young girl to feel this huge man on top of her, grunting, smelling, sweating. Freeman picked up a pack of Kools and a plastic lighter from the counter, lit one, took a drag, coughed on the exhale. He flicked ash into an already full ashtray and glanced at me. “What’s your deal?”

  “This is Dr. Street,” the sheriff answered for me. “Dr. Street is a consultant to my department.”

  “You’re shittin’ me.” Freeman grinned. “Like on The Mentalist or something?”

  “That’s right,” Meltzer said easily. “Dr. Street’s going to tell me when you’re lying.”

  The screen door banged closed, footsteps came down the hall. Detective Raymond appeared, carrying a medium-size cardboard box. “Found it in the barn,” he told us. “In the goddamn hayloft. Almost busted my ass.” He had bits of wheat straw stuck to his clothing and dust on his brown shoes. “Kiddie porn,” Raymond went on, and slapped the box on the floor with a thud. “Mr. Freeman enjoys young men too. And there’s no door handles in the van except on the driver’s side just like you said, Street. And what do ya think’s on here?” He held up a flash drive in a plastic evidence bag.

  The sheriff looked at Freeman. “Well, that didn’t take long. Seems you’ve violated the terms and conditions of your parole, Lewis. That means we’re going to have a lot of time to pick your brain at County.”

  “I’ve never seen that box or that thumb drive.” Freeman lied badly and pointlessly.

  “I have a feeling the lab will tell us a different story,” Meltzer said. “Have him taken to County, Major. Dr. Street, we might as well move on and let the team finish here.” He took a last look at Freeman. “I’m going to give you a couple of hours to think this over. You know something about these girls, coming clean is the only way to help yourself.”

  “Bullshit,” Freeman spat. Brolin pulled his hands up behind him and clamped on cuffs. I followed the sheriff out the front door and down the steps.

  “That was time well spent,” he remarked. “Wonder what else we’ll find by the end of the day. I hope it’s enough to keep him inside a few years.”

  “I do too,” I agreed. “The guy has no remorse. And absolutely no empathy for his victims.” I looked at the sheriff. “But he’s not our guy. He’s morbidly overweight and a smoker. He’d never make that hike to the disposal site. He was winded pouring coffee. And to state the obvious, he’s not very good at covering his tracks. That’s not consistent with your killer.”

  “I agree.” Meltzer was surprisingly cheerful. “But hey, it’s still a great day for the people of Hitchiti County. Except his wife and kids. I feel sorry for them.”

  I thought about the sticky note on the coffeemaker and the foil-covered plate on the stove. I thought about her surviving on one income with two children and a property already in disrepair. And I felt sorry for them too, sorry that her husband had put them in that situation, sorry she’d fallen for the guy and married him fifteen years earlier. I was not sorry Freeman was going back to jail. I only hoped he hadn’t already sexually abused his own children. “Your people capable of thorough evidence collection, Sheriff?”

  Ken Meltzer’s eyes softened. That look again, a smile. “We have motorized vehicles and toilets that flush too. Rest assured, my people are as good as you’ll find anywhere.” We got in his truck. “You just curious or are you thinking I should send a tech to go over that van?”

  Meltzer didn’t miss a lot. I was beginning to think he was better at this than Raymond gave him credit for. “The door handles were missing,” I said. “Freeman works the night shift. Maybe he leaves for work a little early and hunts. I’d get a tech in there with an alternate light source. That van might be a treasure chest of blood evidence and body fluids.”

  14

  “Sorry about the icy reception back there,” Meltzer said on the drive from Freeman’s house to the next offender’s. “Can’t be easy to walk into something like that. It was rude even for Brolin. I’ll have a chat with her.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” I said. “It will just make her insecurities worse. Your investigators are concerned my presence here will interfere with Brolin getting credit for solving this case, if it’s solved, and hurt her chances at being elected sheriff one day.”

  “What makes you think that?” Meltzer sounded surprised.

  “Besides the obvious resentment? Detective Raymond paid me a visit yesterday when I went back to the crime scene. If you solve these cases with my assistance, he believes it will cement your bid for reelection and hurt Major Brolin’s chances at advancement.”

  “He told you that?”

  I nodded. “Maybe if they knew you don’t intend to run they’d both settle down and just do their jobs.”

  “Maybe,” Meltzer said. “On the other hand, if solving the case of two murdered girls, however it’s solved and by whomever, is less important than their personal agenda—well, let’s just say that doesn’t put me in the mood to calm their fears.”

  “Those were Detective Raymond’s words. Not hers. And I was paraphrasing,” I said.

  “We were never friends,” Meltzer admitted, and I was struck, not for the first time, by how candid he could be. “They seemed to distrust me as soon as I took the job. I figured it was because I was young to be sheriff. Rob was in uniform and Tina was a detective back then.”

  “Office romances aren’t good for anyone. It turns into an us-against-them mentality.”

  Meltzer glanced at me. “You mean Brolin and Raymond? They think I don’t know. How’d you guess?”r />
  “I didn’t guess. I deduced. They’re candidates for Co-Dependents Anonymous.”

  “Tina’s married,” Meltzer told me. “Nice guy. Too bad.”

  I thought again about the business card I’d found from the Silver Spoon with Molly Cochran’s number on the back, and I wondered if the sheriff was really so innocent about such things.

  “Raymond’s single,” the sheriff added.

  “Shocker. He’s such a charmer.”

  Meltzer laughed a quiet laugh. “His wife died. Left him with a toddler. That was before I came.”

  “Great. Now I feel guilty,” I said.

  “How about you, Keye? I don’t see a wedding ring.”

  “I’m divorced.”

  “I ran across a magazine piece about you and the homicide lieutenant you work with at APD,” Meltzer said casually, and I knew he’d done his own research on me after I’d been recommended by APD. “It was about hunting serial killers, specifically the Wishbone Killer. Said you were convinced APD had the wrong suspect in custody and kept on it until you broke it.”

  Warm air that hadn’t yet caught fire in the midday sun blew into the cab. Acres of dark green cornstalks with silky tassels rippled like a wave on dry land as we sped past cornfields and white fences and grazing cattle on the two-lane highway.

  “Wishbone got away,” I remarked, darkly. The friend I’d had since sixth grade was dead. I’d almost lost Rauser too. Bullets had ripped through his temple and chest. I had been badly hurt. We’d both spent Christmas in the hospital. And Wishbone was out there somewhere, reinventing, waiting, and choosing carefully. I had no doubt at all that Wishbone’s signature would emerge again someday—the biting and stabbing—and the gory details would once more be splattered all over newspapers and television. It was not a case I viewed as some kind of personal triumph. I’d failed. The killer would kill again.