Page 20 of Silent Prey

“Has anyone ever filed charges?” Finn asked.

Molly shook her head. "No charges. But there were complaints. The company gave him a couple of warnings. He laid low for a while, and then it seemed like the problem went away."

Or maybe it got worse, Sheila thought. Maybe he took it to the next level.

"Can you tell us more about these complaints?" she asked.

Molly hesitated a moment before speaking, "Well, some women said he was taking their pictures without their consent. Others said he was touching them—not inappropriately, but more than necessary—when showing them some plants or rocks during tours. They felt uncomfortable around him."

Finn nodded, taking note of this information. "Thank you for your help, Molly. We appreciate your honesty."

Molly nodded back, her lips pressed in a thin, worried line. “I hope you’re able to find him and straighten this whole thing out.”

“Us, too,” Finn said. He started toward the door, but Sheila hesitated as a new thought struck her.

“Actually,” she said, “could you look up a few more names for me? Not employees, but customers?”

Molly gave her a doubtful expression. “Why? You want to ask them questions, too?”

“No, I want to find out what happened to them. They’re murder victims.”

Molly shook her head, discouraged. “It’s a scary world we live in. Sure, I’ll do anything I can to help. What are the names?”

“Amanda Hayes, Bethany Cole, and Kaylee Jensen.”

Molly tapped away at the keyboard, frowning. “I can’t find anything on Bethany Cole. The other two, though—yes, they booked tours here. Amanda signed up last year, Kaylee just a few months ago.”

“Did either go on tours led by Trevor Lindell?” Finn asked.

Molly nodded solemnly. “Looks like both of them did.”

***

A familiar ache built in Sheila’s legs for the second time that day as she and Finn made their way to Antelope Island’s Buffalo Point, a hilltop destination that yielded panoramic views of the Great Salt Lake. Rugged rocks crumbled under their feet while the glaring late afternoon sun beat down on their backs, forcing them to squint against the bright, reflected light off the lake's surface.

“Makes sense,” Finn said. “Using his job to identify future victims.”

Sheila nodded, saying nothing.

“The only thing I don’t get,” Finn said, “is the obsessive part. Nothing about the murder scenes suggests he was obsessed with those women.”

“Obsession can look different for different people. For a sociopath, it doesn’t necessarily mean sexual attraction. It can be much more devious.”

They both fell silent as they came over a rise and spotted a group of people huddled at a hilltop, listening intently to a man who was enthusiastically pointing and gesturing in multiple directions. He was a man of average build with short, brown hair, wearing khaki shorts and an Antelope Island State Park t-shirt that was stretched tight over a paunchy belly. A pair of binoculars dangled from his neck, bouncing with his every movement. Trevor Lindell.

His audience consisted of five people: an older couple, a bearded man in his thirties, and two women in their twenties. Even from this distance, Sheila could see the intensity in Trevor's eyes as he spoke to the group, particularly to the two young women.

Sheila and Finn watched as Lindell concluded his animated commentary, then began guiding his group back down the hill toward a waiting minibus. He was in the midst of explaining something about the migratory patterns of birds when he noticed them approaching. His brow furrowed slightly, recognizing their uniforms, but he continued speaking in a grand, almost theatrical, manner until the last of his group had boarded the bus.

“Officers,” Lindell said, tugging at his shirt to unknot the sweat-soaked fabric from his back. His fingers toyed with the binoculars hanging from his neck. “You’re certainly a long way from town. What brings you all the way out here?"

Finn stepped forward, his posture as straight and commanding as ever. “We’re investigating a series of murders, Mr. Lindell.”

A flicker of surprise flashed across Lindell's face before he regained composure. He turned to his group. "Give me a moment, please, folks," he said with an easy smile. Then he turned back to the officers and dropped the charm.

“That sounds serious,” he said. “How can I assist you?"

His tone was polite, cooperative even, but Sheila detected an undercurrent of annoyance. He was performing, rehearsing his words as if he had long prepared for this conversation. It set off warning bells in her mind. She exchanged a glance with Finn, who was also studying Lindell carefully.

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