“A robbery that got out of hand then?”
“No. There won’t be any money in the wallets, but taking the cash was an afterthought.”
Spencer poked a finger inside the billfold. Empty. The TBI guy was right. “Not the motive, though?”
“Incidentally, sure. I mean, the cash is just lying there. It’s not going to do the victims any good. Why not take it? But that’s not the real reason the killer did this. He did this for fun, because he’s so mad at something that this is his way of striking back.”
Spencer said,
The older man smiled.
“I like him, too,” said Spencer. “So you think this guy we’re looking for is more than a thief whose robbery got out of hand?”
“He’s a killer first and foremost. Have there been any other unsolved murders around here?”
“No.”
“Any disappearances? Maybe you just didn’t find the bodies.”
“No missing persons.”
“Maybe he’s not from around here then. You’d better hope he doesn’t decide to stay a while. This kind of thing is habit-forming. There should be more victims sometime… somewhere.”
“How do we go about looking for him then?”
“Stranger killers are hard to catch. No pool of suspects. Could have been anybody. You have to hope they do something stupid. But we’ll do what we can to help you with the forensic evidence. It will take some time, though.”
Spencer nodded. “I understand. We have to have a suspect anyhow, before the forensic evidence will do any good.”
The TBI man stood up and stretched, yawning into the gray light. “Morning already. You’re going to have a long day ahead of you, Deputy, finding out if anybody saw anything suspicious up here. Oh, and when you notify the families, be sure you get a description of the personal effects the victims had with them. They may turn up somewhere. It could be the best lead you get.” He yawned again. “Keep in touch. Let me know if there’s anything else we can do to help.”
Back at the office, Spencer worked through the rest of the dawn hours, organizing his notes, making calls to locate the victims’ families. Now it was seven o’clock. He would have to make the notification calls soon, before the families left for work. He stared at the two telephone numbers, wondering which family to call first. He had never had to notify the family of a murder victim. Nelse Miller always took it upon himself to contact the families, and Spencer devoutly wished that the sheriff were here now to take care of it. The thought of coping with weeping and hysterical strangers made him uneasy, and he wondered what questions they would ask him about the circumstances and the condition of the bodies-and what should he tell them?
The most difficult call would be to the female victim’s parents, he thought, because no one ever imagines their little girl in danger. Should he get that call over with, or should he begin with the other one and work up to it? He was so tired.
He dialed the Wilsons’ number. The phone rang four times before someone picked it up, and a sleepy voice murmured, “-’Lo?”
Spencer took a deep breath. “Mrs. Wilson?”
“Who is this? What time is it?”
He took a deep breath. You never got used to it. “My name is Spencer Arrowood. I’m with the sheriff’s department in Wake County, Tennessee. Is there anyone with you, Mrs. Wilson?”
She made a startled cry and said, “What’s happened to Mike?” He heard her say, presumably to her husband, “Lyman, it’s about Mike.” Spencer waited for a man to come to the phone, but after a moment’s silence, Mrs. Wilson came back on the line and told him to go on. He plunged into his account of Mike Wilson’s death. He repeated who he was and where the bodies had been taken, telling Mrs. Wilson that someone would have to come to Tennessee to identify the body. Spencer made her write down his telephone number, because he knew she would want it later.
At last she said, “I’ve been expecting this call for a long time, Officer. Funny, though. I always thought it would come from Vietnam.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Spencer. “My brother was killed there.”
There wasn’t much left to say after that. He told her again how sorry he was, and asked if she was sure she was all right, but she was a soldier’s mother and she knew how to be brave. She said she was fine, and she thanked him for his kindness, but he could hear the sobs in her throat.
Spencer waited five minutes after he hung up the phone before he placed the second call. He drank cold coffee without tasting it, and wondered if he’d be able to sleep when his day was finally over.
Colonel Stanton had answered the phone as if he had been up for hours, which perhaps he had. His voice was crisp and alert. He picked up the receiver after one ring and said “Stanton!” as if all the calls he had ever received at home were urgent and official.
Spencer identified himself, as he had to Mrs. Wilson, and then he’d asked, for form’s sake, “Do you have a daughter named Emily?”
Spencer heard a sharp intake of breath, and then the same calm voice answered, “I do,” and then waited. He didn’t say:
The silence at the other end of the phone stretched on as Spencer explained that Emily Stanton and her companion had been attacked while camping near the Appalachian Trail, and that both the young people were dead. He would need a member of the Stanton family to come to Tennessee to identify and claim the body. At this point the silence had become so protracted that Spencer interrupted himself to ask: “Are you all right, sir?”
Charles Wythe Stanton ignored the question. “Are the killers in custody?”
“No, sir. Not yet.” The authority in that voice took Spencer back to his army days in Germany. This stranger on the telephone had just taken command of the investigation.
“Is there anything you need from us, Officer?”
“Yes, sir. A description of any jewelry your daughter may have been wearing.”
The list was given in the same crisp tones as before. “Is there anything else?”
“Not at this time, sir.” Spencer felt that he was more shaken by the news than this stranger on the telephone.
“I will be driving to Tennessee within the hour,” Charles Stanton told him. “I shall expect a full report when I arrive.”
“Go to Knoxville first,” Spencer told him. “Identify the body, and talk to the TBI. Stop in Hamelin on your way back, after my investigation is under way.”
“Hamelin is a little one-horse town, isn’t it?”
“You might say that.”
“I hope to God you people are up to this investigation,” said Charles Stanton. “Because if you aren’t, I will find the killer myself.”
He hung up before Spencer could respond. He had no intention of explaining to