“The only problem with that,” Hardesty said, “is that in order for him to screw up, he’ll have to make another attempt on some poor girl’s life.”
She looked at Will.
“Yeah. And if our guy is Arthur Kelty—like you think—he might leave town before he has the chance to screw up. Just like his father.”
She pulled a chair out from the table and flopped down in it.
“Regardless of his identity,” Hardesty said, “there’s got to be a common denominator. Maybe the victims used the same gas station or supermarket or patronized the same bar. There must be some connection between them and the killer.”
“It does seem unlikely that the killer would pick a home at random,” Jen agreed. “He’d have to be watching that night to know she was alone then, and he would probably have to have her under surveillance for some time in order to be sure she lived alone.”
Will had stood quietly at the end of the table as the others voiced their conjectures. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her since she’d entered the room. His gaze was at once thoughtful and tender. She suspected that his thoughts were running in two tracks, one devoted to catching a killer and the other devoted to getting her into his bed.
“Maybe the Bureau will have some luck tracing Arthur Kelty,” she said.
The federal machinery had creaked into gear to search for the missing man. Jen knew all avenues would be explored, from Social Security records to income tax returns to military records. Sometimes it was helpful that Big Brother watched, but if Arthur Kelty really wanted to disappear and reemerge as someone else, she knew it wouldn’t be that difficult. False identification had always been available for the right price, but in the digital age, even a technologically savvy teenager could manage it. Not to mention that anything and everything could be had on the Dark Web. She’d seen news stories where journalists had bought fake passports on the Dark Web, then used them to cross borders with no one being the wiser.
“So what’s on the agenda tonight?” Jen said. “Besides picking each other’s brains for ideas, I mean?”
“The pickings are slim,” Al muttered.
“I thought we’d look over the reports again,” Lonnie said. “In light of this new case, something might stand out like the connection to BodyFit.”
“By the way,” Hardesty cut in, “I checked with Judy Sams’s friends and relatives. None of them know of her ever going to BodyFit, but they admitted it was possible. They said she’d been complaining that she needed to start exercising more, so she may have stopped in to look the place over.”
“Al, I’d like you and Don to canvass Kaufmann’s neighborhood tonight,” Lonnie said. “A lot of the neighbors were at work earlier today.”
“I’d like to check BodyFit,” Jen said, “unless you have something else you want me to do.”
“No, that’s top on our list. I’d planned to have you and your new partner check it out.”
Lonnie smiled mischievously, and Jen glared at him.
“We could split up, you know,” she said. “Cover more ground that way.”
“We don’t have that much ground to cover. Besides, you know I prefer having two people conduct interviews. One often picks up on something the other one misses.”
“I think it’s a good idea.” Will and Lonnie exchanged a look.
“I thought you would,” Lonnie said.
Jen gave up. Her sergeant was obviously committed to playing Cupid. She knew that until these cases were closed, she was going to be thrown into constant and close contact with Will Anderson. She couldn’t decide if she was pleased, angry, or frightened at the prospect.
“After we get finished with BodyFit,” Will said, “we could check out The Factory.”
The Factory was a favorite singles spot in the Forest Plaza Mall near the interstate. She’d been there a couple of times with dates. It was a nice enough place, but it catered to a younger crowd than she preferred.
“I gather that’s where Vicki and Sandy Norton went last night?”
“Yeah.” Al looked up from the report he’d been reading. “Norton’s mother called. I got the impression she wasn’t too keen about her daughter going to places like that, so, of course, she’s convinced the killer followed them from there.”
“Maybe he did.”
“Maybe. Who knows?”
Jen picked up a copy of the Edwards file and tried to ignore Will. She settled back with the thick sheaf of papers and grisly photographs. She practically knew the file word for word, but one more look wouldn’t hurt.
Carla Jean Edwards had been a third-grade teacher at Lincoln Elementary. She was Caucasian, twenty-nine years old, and attractive. She’d been divorced only a couple of months when she was killed. She had apparently been home all evening that Wednesday, reading and grading papers. Another teacher, Bill Lind, had phoned her at approximately eight-thirty regarding a Friday night date. They had talked for fifteen minutes. The coroner put the time of death between one and four in the morning.
Carla’s throat had been cut but not before she had been severely beaten. She had been found tied to her bed with the same type of rope used on the first and latest victims. In common with them, she had a pillowcase tied around her head, held in place by a black satin ribbon.
The only physical evidence was the rope, ribbon, and a few hairs. Both the rope and ribbon were common brands sold in nearly every big box store within a fifty-mile radius, not to mention online, and the hair samples showed that the killer was Caucasian with a common hair color, brown. It seemed that the only thing that wasn’t common about him was his idea of a good time.
The lock had been forced on the patio doors, suggesting that as his point of entry. There were no fingerprints found that didn’t belong to the victim or her friends, indicating the killer had worn gloves. Nothing had been stolen.
Jen looked up at Will. He’d taken a chair across the table from her and
