Page 10 of Little Stolen Memories

“I agree,” Harvey said. “I thought the same thing when I was investigating the case.”

“If we were dealing with a serial killer, even if he had a long cooling-off period, I would have expected him to resurface at some point and kill again. And he hasn’t. Not in our county, at least.”

It further strengthened my assumption that while killing three or more people could be considered serial killer behavior, the cabin murders had been different.

It led me to my next question.

“When you investigated the murders back then, was there anyone you interviewed or came across whom you suspected may have been the killer, but you just couldn’t prove it?”

“We talked to everyone, and I do mean everyone. Everyone was a suspect—classmates, teachers, families—you name it. You know how it is when you start questioning people. The smallest flaw in anyone’s story, and it’s hard not to think they’re guilty, even if there’s not enough proof. What we lacked was evidence. We never had anything substantial enough to arrest any specific person.”

In cases like this, it was hard not to get ahead of myself—to solve the murder based on a feeling that told me I’d found the killer, whether I had the proof to back it up or not.

“I understand,” I said. “Still, I’d like to pick your brain, discuss your thoughts and feelings, anything you can remember.”

“I have no problem going over it with you. You know how personal it is to me, even now. If there’s anything I can do to help your investigation, I want you to know, I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

Good.

Because there was something I needed.

“I’d like to get my hands on the case file,” I said. “Since it’s a cold case, I believe Foley won’t have a problem letting me look at it. When I leave here, I’ll stop by the department and see if I can talk to him.”

Harvey offered a wry grin, scooted his chair back, and pushed himself to a standing position. “No need. When I retired, I made copies of all my files. Figured they might come in handy one day. Seems to me, today’s the day.”

“Now, just a second,” my mother said. “I think Harvey and I should talk about this first.”

“Darlene, you know how much I respect your opinion,” Harvey said. “But this is something I need to do. It’s important to me. I hope you can respect that.”

My mother, who was almost never without a response, said nothing. She wasn’t used to Harvey pushing back. She stared up at him, her expression changing from irritation to one of care and understanding.

Harvey left the room, returning a few minutes later with a hefty case file. He set it down on the table and said, “You let me know if you have questions about anything you see in here. I’ve been over this so many times, I’ve committed it to memory.”

I took a few sips of tea, flipped the file folder open, and said, “It’s been a long time since we discussed the case.”

Harvey tapped a finger on the table and nodded. “It has been. As to your question before, there was one guy I leaned on a lot harder than the others.”

“Who?”

“Danny Donovan. He was in his late twenties back then. He was renting a cabin not far from Cora’s grandmother’s place.”

“What made you consider him a suspect?”

“He was an odd fellow. Reclusive. Fearful of law enforcement. We stopped by his place to question him, and as soon as he opened the door I noticed he had a bandage on his left index finger. I asked him about it, and he started shaking. Said he’d cut it working on a piece of furniture, of all things. Refused to say much beyond that. If he did do it, we couldn’t prove it.”

“Aside from Danny’s demeanor and the cut on his finger, was there anything else about him that led you to believe he was guilty?”

Harvey bent down, flipped open the case file, and thumbed through it, pulling out a photo of a bloody, dented metal bat. He pointed at it and said, “We believe this was the murder weapon. And wouldn’t you know … we found it less than one hundred feet from the back of Danny’s property.”

CHAPTER 6

I left my mother’s house and called Simone and Hunter, asking them to meet me at the office to discuss the new case.

Hunter arrived on time, per usual, and Simone sauntered in about fifteen minutes late, per her usual. She plopped down in a chair and said, “From what you told me over the phone, it sounds like this case is going to be a juicy one. We haven’t dealt with a cold case like this since we started the agency.”

She was right.

We hadn’t.

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