Page 21 of The Grave Between Us
Ingram’s truck also held a shovel, a long roll of landscaping plastic, three bottles of Drano, and a half-full bottle of lube.
“Ingram has been arraigned on murder one, as well as assault of a government official. Abuse of a corpse is a state felony, unfortunately, or we’d throw that at him, too. He’s in isolation at the Virginia maximum-security prison. This has been a federal case since the moment we identified the body as coming from North Carolina, so the local FO has been all over this. Their agents got Ingram in an interrogation room and worked him for five days, sunup to sundown. They tried everything. Rapport building, buddying up, Reid technique, PEACE technique. Hell, they sat and stared at him for four hours one day.”
“He hasn’t said anything?”
“He’s only said two things. ‘You finally caught me’ was the first. Local agents pushed on the ‘finally’ part of that statement. Asked Ingram how many times he’s killed. How many bodies are out there.”
“What did he say?”
“‘There are many graves.’”
Cole’s mind whirled. There was specificity to how Ingram spoke. He meant something by what he chose to say about graves. “And then nothing after that?”
“Silence, for two weeks now. Day after day after day. The local office has thrown in the towel. They called us. I sent Burke and Wolfe down there. They came back with nothing. Ingram smiled at them. He fell asleep in one of the interviews. Nothing we’re offering is reaching him. No plea deals, no reduced sentencing. No perks or bonuses or privileges.”
“What’s so important about him? Why does he have you this worked up?”
“That pickup he has? He registered it nine months ago,” Michael said softly. “He had another truck before that.”
Thirty-six years old. At least five potential victim profiles in his current vehicle. Most serial offenders began killing in their early twenties and continued until they were stopped. With just a simple extrapolation from five victims every nine months, that was potentially more than a hundred victims, if Ingram started in his early twenties. One victim every 1.8 months for sixteen years.
Maybe there were fewer. Maybe he’d only killed the five men in his truck. Or only two or three of those men. Or maybe he’d accelerated over time. Maybe there were more, and they just didn’t have forensics on any beyond the five they’d pulled from his truck. Fingerprints under headrests and DNA from beneath floor mats and under the plastic lip of the glove compartment meant Ingram cleaned his truck. No man would climb into a truck cab washed in blood, and if Ingram were only transporting corpses, there wouldn’t be a fingerprint beneath a headrest, where someone had to use some grip strength to squeeze the leather and stuffing for a good transfer.
Cole had gripped a few headrests in his day, in college and high school. He had an idea how that print got there. But was it voluntary, or had it been placed in desperation, in terror?
“We checked his background. Ingram has been a traveling paramedic since he got out of the military fourteen years ago. Locum tenens. He’s worked in emergency rooms across the country, from California to Oklahoma to West Virginia. New Mexico to Arkansas. Indian country, even. Hell, he worked in Nome for a few days with the Army. Do you know where Nome is?”
“Alaska. Seward Peninsula.”
“Do you know how many missing people there are in Nome, Alaska?”
“Missing persons rates are higher in remote areas, especially those with harsh winter climates. People don’t have many outlets, and they turn to drinking. Most of the time socially, in bars. Snow and ice means people can’t drive very far, so after they’re good and drunk, many try to walk home. More than a few don’t make it. Nome is particularly famous for a high number of missing people attributed to this,” Cole said.
“Thank you, doctor,” Michael growled.
Cole stayed quiet. He wasn’t a doctor, not yet. Michael only dragged out the doctor line when he was especially aggravated with him.
“You’ve made my point for me,” Michael continued. “Pick any day you want in the past sixteen years, if you include his time in the military. Isolate the five hundred miles around wherever Ingram was that day. Look at only adult men reported missing. Now tell me, which of those dozens of men is potentially one of his victims? How can you identify them?”
Cole exhaled.
“We don’t know how many victims Ingram may have. We don’t know where they are. All we have are thousands of missing persons reports over the past decade and a half, and a man who claims he’s murdered ‘many.’ We’ve got a confessed serial killer but only one body. There are families out there waiting for answers. God only knows how many. Only Ingram can close the file on his victims.”
Michael never invoked God. Never spoke to Him, either.
“It would be too much to hope he’s full of shit, huh?” Cole asked.
“Not with five distinct DNA profiles inside his truck. Not with him trying to murder a state trooper. Not at his age. And not with his silence, either.”
“Why do you think he isn’t talking?”
Michael ran his finger around Cole’s desk edge again, collecting dust beneath his bitten, stubby fingernail. “We’re not giving him what he wants.”
“What does he want?”
“We haven’t found out yet. That’s why I’m sending you down.”
* * *
