Page 104 of See How They Hide

Matt left and caught up with Michael, who had walked around the exterior of the buildings. “Truck isn’t here,” Michael said. “There’s only one entrance, no way they can exit the back, the bathroom window is too small for someone to climb through.”

“Room 119. Manager said they’re not here, but they could have parked elsewhere and walked in.” He told Michael about the third guy.

“Logical,” Michael said. “If two were in Fort Collins to kill Donovan Smith, the third was here and staying in the cabin by Morrison’s house.”

Matt and Michael approached the door with caution. Michael knocked loudly while Matt stood to the side, hand on his weapon.

“Ms. Bellamy, FBI.”

Silence. No movement, no voices.

“Ginger Bellamy,” Michael said, “we have management permission and are coming in.” He nodded to Matt, who unlocked the door, then stepped aside. Michael pushed it open, and they counted to three before Matt entered and Michael covered him.

The room was empty. They quickly cleared the closet, bathroom, and under the bed—the only places a person could hide.

“Clear,” Michael said.

They looked around the room. The bed was made, but rumpled. The motel only had housekeeping every three days, per the sign on the wall. So tomorrow it would have been cleaned up, sheets changed.

There were no suitcases in the closet, no clothes there or in the drawers, no toiletries in the bathroom. They weren’t coming back.

But they hadn’t completely cleaned out the place. Matt retrieved his evidence collection kit from the car. He and Michael put on gloves.

Prints in motel rooms were notoriously difficult to use, but Matt wanted Ginger’s prints. She was the suspect in Andrew Gardner’s poisoning. They could make a case for Anton attacking a federal agent, and the beer mug was at the county crime lab for processing. They might be able to get prints from it, but the condensation on the glass probably damaged them.

Michael printed the bedroom—door handle inside and out, lamps, knobs. Matt printed the bathroom—toilet handle, sink, towel rack, inside knob. There were no glasses in the room, but the garbage was still there.

Under take-out bags was a card identical to the one included with the flowers. It had been partly written on, but she’d crossed it out and tore it in two. “Bingo,” he said and put the two halves into an evidence bag, sealed and labeled it.

Michael preserved the fingerprints on cards designed for the purpose, slid each card into an individual protective envelope, and put them together in their own evidence bag.

They found several wilted red poppies in the trash and on the floor, which they collected. The flowers might be the most important find—if the lab could connect these poppies with those found on the victims, that would tie Ginger and Anton to four murders.

But not Jesse Morrison. No poppies were found anywhere in his house or property.

The receipts attached to the take-out bags indicated the food was paid for with cash, but Matt sealed them anyway. They might follow up with the clerks to see if there was anything else to learn about their suspects: which one came in; if they were together or alone; was anyone else with them, such as the unknown third man; did they say anything; what was their demeanor.

“Let’s send this to Quantico,” Matt said. “If they can match the poppies, and coupled with Riley’s statement—and Andrew’s, if he regains consciousness—we should be able to get a warrant for Havenwood.”

“When we find it,” Michael added.

“We’ll find it,” Matt said with confidence. He looked again around the room and said, “I don’t think they’re coming back, but since they have the room paid through Sunday, we need to talk to the manager and have him contact us if he sees their truck. Call Ryder and arrange to send the evidence.”

Matt and Michael took the evidence to the sheriff’s office in Del Norte to ship off to Quantico, then headed back toward South Fork. The roads had been cleared and the sky was a brilliant blue, but the cold weather had created patches of ice, making the roads slick. Matt was happy to let Michael take the wheel—he’d been raised in Chicago and worked out of the Detroit office for three years; he had far more experience driving in snow than Matt, who’d been raised in Miami and spent the bulk of his FBI career in Tucson.

Ryder called and Matt put him on speaker, then said, “Did you get my message about the package coming from the motel?”

“Yes. They’re expecting it and I’ve indicated that it’s urgent. That doesn’t always mean they’ll jump on it.”

Evidence processing could take weeks or months depending on the type and the backlog. Priority went to cases that had pending trial dates; Matt would be near the bottom of the list. But he had one thing going for him: Jim Esteban. When Jim got back to Quantico, he could process the evidence in the mobile crime lab that was stored on-site.

“Kara sent Riley’s map of Havenwood,” Ryder continued. “The computer unit at Quantico has uploaded it and is running it against satellite footage from last summer, which they determine will give us the best chance of identifying the area. It’s going to take anywhere from a few hours to a day.”

“I expected much longer.”

“It’s a state-of-the-art program. We also found Bridget O’Malley. She’s living outside Helena, Montana, and two agents are on their way to talk to her. I briefed them and if they learn anything they’ll pass it on.”

“Thanks for the update. The sheriff is calling, anything else?”

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