Page 23 of Her Last Farewell

Rachel shook her head. "Without probable cause or warrants, we can't search private property. We'd be violating Fourth Amendment rights."

"But wecanstart developing a profile," Novak interjected. "Look for people who might fit the pattern we're seeing. Someone with the means to hold multiple captives, someone who might have access to information about vulnerable women."

Leery nodded, already pulling his keyboard closer. "I'm on it. Give me ten minutes to pull together some initial files. We've got records on most of the troublemakers in the county, though I never would have thought any of them capable of something like this. It might be like shooting in the dark, but I suppose it’s better than nothing."

As Leery began his search, Rachel stood by the window, watching the afternoon continue to ebb away from them. It was still bright out but it was the time of year where it would be completely dark by six o’ clock—the sort of dark that seemed to creep up on the southern states after October. Her mind returned to the bruises on Carla's body, to the careful way she had been positioned after death. This wasn't a typical killer driven by rage or sexual impulses. This was something different - someone who saw themselves as having a purpose, perhaps even believing they were helping their victims in some twistedway. It would certainly explain why the killer seemed to be going after those with ideas of suicide in their heads.

The precinct's evening shift was arriving now, officers trading places with their daytime counterparts. Rachel watched them, wondering if any of them had unknowingly crossed paths with their killer. In a community this small, it seemed almost certain they had.

"Rachel," Novak called softly from behind her. "We should look at the files as soon as Leery has them ready….even if it’s just one or two at first. If we're right about this, there might be other women at risk right now."

She turned from the window, noting how the fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across her partner's concerned face. "You're right. And if there are indeed multiple victims being held somewhere..." She left the thought unfinished, but they both understood the urgency. Somewhere in this quiet county, women might be waiting for rescue, dreading the next day that would come around when their captor decided they needed to make room for someone new.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Rachel sat at the borrowed desk in the Bowery police precinct's bullpen, surrounded by stacks of manila folders and loose papers. The late afternoon sun slanted through the dusty windows, casting long shadows across the worn industrial carpet. She was done with looking at case files—fed up and feeling like they were wasting their time. But she knew it needed to be done. It was a necessary evil.

The precinct hummed with the controlled chaos of a small-town police station - phones ringing intermittently, the gentle whir of an ancient coffee maker, and the murmur of conversations between officers changing shifts. Rachel rubbed her temples, trying to ward off an impending headache as she flipped through yet another file detailing petty crimes and misdemeanors. She found it hard to believe that all of this had taken place in less than a twenty-four-hour period. Maybe it was all of the running around in circles, driving back and forth from place to place, that had her feeling like days had passed.

Across from her, Novak hunched over a borrowed laptop, its screen casting a blue glow on his focused features. His tie had been loosened hours ago, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows as he methodically worked through the state database. Every few minutes, he'd mutter something under his breath and make a note on the legal pad beside him.

The file currently open in front of Rachel detailed the exploits of one Curtis Thatcher, a local moonshiner who'd been arrested three separate times for producing and distributing illegal alcohol. The most recent arrest had resulted in the discovery of a sophisticated still operation hidden in an abandoned barn on the outskirts of town. Rachel skimmed the details of the bust,noting that while Thatcher had shown a talent for evading law enforcement, his crimes were purely profit-motivated.

"Got another one for you," Deputy Leery announced, placing a fresh folder on top of the moonshiner's file. His shirt was wrinkled from a long day of helping them compile potential suspects, and Rachel could see the fatigue in his eyes. "That's the last one I can find. Unless, of course, Agent Novak can find something on the database."

Rachel reached for the new file, her fingers brushing against the crisp edges of the folder. Inside was a report about Mrs. Nancy Holloway, a sixty-two-year-old woman who'd killed her husband in what had been ruled self-defense. The subsequent details painted a grim picture: after the shooting, Holloway had gone on a drunken rampage, harassing her late husband's family members and threatening to burn down their homes. While the case was certainly disturbing, it didn't fit the profile they were building of their killer. Another waste of time.

The stack of files to Rachel's right represented hours of work by Leery and his officers. She appreciated their effort, but as she looked through the collection of local troublemakers, she couldn't help but feel frustrated. The files painted a portrait of small-town crime - domestic disputes, drunk driving incidents, bar fights, and petty theft. These were the usual suspects, the people whose names came up whenever something went wrong in Bowery. And between these trouble-makers and the case files they’d read on the missing earlier in the day, Rachel was starting to feel like she was knew just about everyone in this small town.

Rachel began sorting the files into categories, picking out patterns and dismissing those that clearly didn't fit their case. Her fingers moved methodically, creating smaller piles based on the severity and nature of the crimes. Most she could dismiss outright - the drunk drivers, the petty thieves, the bar fighters. Others required more careful consideration.

After nearly an hour of detailed analysis, she had narrowed the field of twenty-plus suspects down to three individuals who warranted further investigation. The first was James Morton, a man who had two different restraining orders filed against him by former girlfriends. The police reports painted a picture of escalating controlling behavior and threats of violence, though he'd never been charged with actual assault.

The second was Derek Washburn, who'd held his wife at gunpoint during a domestic dispute two years ago. The incident had lasted several hours before a negotiator had talked him into surrendering. His wife had divorced him shortly after, and recent reports suggested he wasn't handling the separation well. It appeared as if he’d bounced back and forth between Lynchburg and Richmond ever since the events occurred.

But it was the third suspect that caught Rachel's attention most strongly. Martin Graves, a middle-aged man who had been arrested six years ago for loitering around Bowery High School. The subsequent investigation had uncovered a cache of underage pornography on his computer, leading to a prison sentence. Later, two high school girls had stepped forward and confessed that Graves had attempted to pick them up—asking rather rudely and aggressively if they needed rides home from school. According to the case files, he'd been released just nine months ago and was living in a halfway house on the edge of town.

Rachel studied Graves' mug shot, noting the cold calculation in his eyes despite his attempt to appear harmless. His crimes suggested a predatory nature and a willingness to target vulnerable victims. While the profile didn't exactly match their current case, something about Graves set off warning bells in Rachel's mind.

"Leery," she called out, catching the deputy's attention as he passed by their workspace. "I think we should send units tocheck on these three." She handed him the files she'd separated out. "I don't think they're our killer, but we need to cover all our bases. And if it comes down to it, maybe Novak and I can pay a visit to Martin Graves."

Leery nodded, taking the files from her. "I'll get officers to look into these folks right away. But I can tell you right now that Graves isn’t the killer.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“He’s got lung cancer. I think it popped up a few years back. He can barely get around at all. Last I heard, he’s pretty much confined to a wheelchair.”

“Well, yes…I guess that strikes him out, then.”

“But I know for a fact that Morton usually hangs out at The Rusty Nail this time of day, and Washburn—"

The sharp trill of Rachel's cell phone cut through their conversation. She quickly pulled it from her pocket, recognizing the number for the local coroner's office she'd saved earlier. Her heart rate picked up slightly as she answered. Maybe there would be more of a lead on the other line.

"This is Agent Gift," she said, holding up one finger to Leery to indicate she needed a moment.

"Agent Gift, this is Dr. Harrison from the coroner's office," the voice on the other end said. "I'm just calling to check a box, really. You asked to be notified if we found anything out of the ordinary during our examination."

Rachel grabbed her notepad, pen poised. "Yes, go ahead."

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