Alex Kava Bundle - Alex Kava [23]
“When did the victim disappear?”
“Early last Sunday morning. We found his bike and bag of newspapers against a fence. He hadn’t even started his route yet.”
“So the killer had him for at least three whole days.”
“Jesus,” Nick mumbled and shook his head. He hadn’t thought about the time between the abduction and the murder. They had all been so sure the boy had been kidnapped by his father or someone who would demand a ransom. Nick had believed the boy was being well cared for.
“So how did the chain get broken?” Nick wanted to think of something other than the torture the boy may have endured.
“I don’t know for sure. Maybe the killer pulled it off. It was a silver cross, right?” She looked to him for assurance. He only nodded, impressed that she had equipped herself with so many details from his report. She continued as if thinking out loud. “Maybe the killer didn’t like staring at it. Maybe he wasn’t able to do what he wanted to do as long as the victim was wearing it. Its religious significance is some sort of protection. Perhaps the killer is religious enough to have known that and have been uncomfortable.”
“A religious killer? Great.”
“What other trace do you have?”
“Trace?”
“Other evidence—other objects, torn pieces of fabric or rope? Was the FBI able to pull any tire tracks at all?”
The tire tracks again. How many times would he need to be reminded of his screwup.
“We did find a footprint.”
She stared at him, and he saw a flicker of impatience.
“A footprint? Excuse me, Sheriff, I don’t mean to sound skeptical, but how were you able to isolate a footprint? From what I can tell, there must have been over a dozen pairs of feet out here.” She waved her hand at the shoe impressions trampled in the mud. “How do you know that the prints you found weren’t one of your men or the FBI?”
“Because none of us were barefoot.” He didn’t wait for her reaction but moved closer to the river. He grabbed on to a tree branch just as his boots slid partway down the bank. When he looked up, O’Dell was standing over him.
“Right here.” He pointed to the set of toes imprinted in the mud and highlighted with remnants of casting powder.
“There’s no guarantee those are the killer’s.”
“Who else would be nuts enough to be out here without shoes?”
She grabbed the same branch and slid down next to him.
“You mind giving me a hand?” She extended a hand to him and he took it, allowing her to hang on while she bent down and stretched over the impression without sliding into the water.
Her hand was soft and small in his, but her grip was strong. Her jacket swung open, and he made himself look away. Jesus, she certainly didn’t look like an FBI agent.
After a few seconds she pulled herself up and immediately released his hand. Back on solid ground, she started writing in the notebook. Nick stared up at the thick, gray clouds. Suddenly, he wished he was anywhere else. The last forty-eight hours had drained him. His calf muscles ached from the 10K race he had pushed himself to run that morning. And now, here he was feeling incompetent and nauseated again, remembering Danny Alverez’s white body, those wide eyes staring up at the stars. A flock of snow geese honked as they passed overhead. Nick caught himself wondering what had been the last thing Danny had looked up at. He hoped it had been some geese, something tranquil and familiar.
“The puncture marks and the carving in the boy’s chest were exactly like the Jeffreys murders,” he said, forcing his attention back to O’Dell. “How could anyone have that information?”
“His execution was recent. July, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Oftentimes, local news media run stories about the murders when an execution occurs. A person could get plenty of information from those accounts.”
“The good ole media,” Nick said, remembering the sting from Christine’s articles.
“Or someone could get detailed information from the court transcripts. They’re usually public record after the trial is over.”
“So you think this is a copycat killer?