The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [56]
J.T. searching for a place to hide his sister. The colonel taking the door off its hinges.
He bit his lower lip to contain the memories.
She took a step forward, then another. Slowly her face became visible. She was uncommonly pale.
“Angela isn’t in the kitchen,” she whispered. “She isn’t anywhere in the house.”
J.T. nodded dumbly.
“That was the Information Division. I know who she is, J.T. And, my God, I think I may have screwed up. I may have really, really screwed up.”
TWELVE
LIEUTENANT LANCE DIFFORD was getting old. He was unbearably conscious of it these days. His hair had thinned considerably; it was harder to get up in the mornings. Coffee was starting to hurt his stomach and he was actually contemplating giving up doughnuts and prime rib.
Now the weather was getting colder and yeah, his insomnia was growing worse.
He wasn’t actually that old—fifty was hardly one step away from the grave in this day and age. He’d never planned on leaving the force until he was sixty. He was a good lieutenant, a decent cop, a respected man. Once, he’d thought he’d spend his days investigating death, helping the Hampden County DA prosecute homicides, and eventually retire to Florida to visit baseball’s spring training camps.
Then a girl was found outside of Ipswich, her head beaten in and her own nylons wrapped around her neck. Eight months later they had another girl in Clinton and calls from the DA in Vermont wanting to compare their crime scenes with homicides from Middlebury and Bennington.
Virtually overnight Difford went from low-key police work to one of the highest-profiled cases Massachusetts had ever seen. At the end he could summon unbelievable amounts of manpower just by snapping his fingers, from county resources to state resources to the FBI. Everyone wanted to help catch the man who’d probably killed four women in three states. Except then it became five women, then six women, then ten.
Difford had aged a lot those days. Six task forces operating around the clock and the most manpower logged on a single investigation in the state’s history.
What we have here, boys, is the worst serial killer New England has seen since Albert DeSalvo in ’67. And you know how many mistakes he’s made? Zero.
Special Agent Quincy had them staking out grave sites and memorial services without avail. They’d arranged with columnists to profile the victims, keeping their names and tragedy fresh in the public mind. Maybe the guy would contact a loved one to brag. Maybe the guy was actually the bartender at the local police hangout, pumping officers for details. They’d executed the case like a textbook study, and still more blond daughters/wives/mothers went out for a drive and never came home.
Then one night Difford had gotten the phone call, not on the hotline but at home. The woman’s voice had been so muffled, he could barely discern her words.
“I think I know who you’re looking for,” she whispered without preamble. Difford had the image of a woman crouched in a closet, her hand cupping her mouth, her shoulders hunched in fear.
“Ma’am?”
“Is it true it’s a blunt wooden object? Could it be a baseball bat?”
Difford gripped the phone tighter. “That could be, ma’am,” he said carefully. “Would you like to make a statement? Could you come to the station?”
“No. No, no, absolutely not. He’d kill me. I know it.” Her voice rose an octave before she cut it off. Difford listened to her deep, steadying breaths as she tried to pull herself together. “I know who it is,” she said. “It’s the only explanation. The bats, his temper, all the unexplained hours . . . The look I sometimes see in his eye. I just didn’t want to believe—” Her voice broke. “Promise me you’ll protect my daughter. Please promise me that. Then I’ll give you anything.”
“Ma’am?”
“This man, this killer you’re looking for—he’s one of you.”
Difford felt the chill shudder up his spine, and he knew then that they had him. The Hampden County DA had become involved in the case at the request of the Berkshire County DA—the minute the Berkshire County team