“All due respect, Bill Blassing didn’t disappear in the woods,” Martin said carefully.
“No. But he worked at the factory, and he hiked in those woods almost every weekend while he was still able. He led volunteer groups to clean up the trails after storms, and he loved the river. Took his lunch along the bank more days than he didn’t. During the search we combed them on horseback but never saw any sign he’d been there. You wanted to widen the lens, and it didn’t feel right leaving him out,” Captain said. “And six… Hazel Rae Stevens.” He carefully taped Hazel’s picture to the end of the line, his eyes lingering on her for several seconds, and Martin wondered what regrets might be whispering through him now.
“Bill Blassing and Hazel Stevens disappeared within two months of each other.” Martin glanced at Captain over his shoulder. “That didn’t raise a red flag?”
“Honestly, it’s the only reason Hazel’s active search lasted as long as it did. We kept the fire burning under that case for twice as long as we normally would and even brought in bigger brass. Then the case for a runaway kept getting stronger, we had a plausible explanation for Bill’s disappearance, and Hazel and Bill are about as different in victimology as two people can be—age, race, gender, social circles, location. I tried to connect those two, I really did. But there was no connection to be found other than proximity of time.”
“I have someone to add,” Martin said. “Be right back.”
Martin walked to his desk, grabbed the file he’d taken with him from Savannah, and came back. He pulled the snapshot of Toni Hargrove from the folder. It was a mug shot from one of her first arrests. She couldn’t have been more than twenty years old in the picture, and her freckles and flame-red hair made her look even younger. Her red-brown eyes were another story, already ancient, propped up with thick eyeliner and puffy bags. When he’d seen her body at the morgue, she’d been nearly thirty years old. He hadn’t seen her in person in years by then. She’d left Savannah for Atlanta several years before, convinced she was going to make it big in the rising music scene. Six months later, when she was busted for prostitution, she gave the Atlanta PD Martin’s name and contact information, along with a story about working undercover.
In the morgue, he’d touched her hand when no one else was looking. He’d been checking for her ring—a little silver crescent moon cradling a garnet stone. It was the one thing she’d ever been sentimental about. But her hand was bare, and for a second or two, he convinced himself it wasn’t Toni on the slab, just someone who looked a lot like her. Someone else who knew his phone number by heart. Someone else who called him in their most desperate hour. But standing there, even as high as he had been, he knew no one else relied on him like that anymore. The only person who still thought he was good and trustworthy was now mutilated on a metal table.
The ring. Jesus Christ, her missing ring. The thought shot through Martin like he’d stuck a key in a light socket. Hazel’s ring, Ama’s watch, Toni’s ring.
He swallowed hard, trying to keep the connection from bursting out of his mouth. Unless the ring had turned up inside the stone hutch where the other two pieces were found, he doubted the captain would entertain the link, especially since he couldn’t prove she’d been wearing it at the time of her murder. But in the spiderweb of possible evidence, Martin silently connected the strands as he positioned Toni’s picture to the left of Bill’s.
“She was found murdered at the rest stop just south of Tarson,” he narrated. “Half her tongue was removed.”
“I remember that.” Captain’s gaze shifted from the photo to Toni’s folder. “Do I want to know how a case file from your old precinct came to be in my station?”
“No, sir.”
“Your vic’s body was found. I don’t know that she belongs up there,” Captain said, apparently deciding to listen to Martin, and pointed to the first three pictures in the timeline, all young and sullen-faced. “They didn’t find those boys, either. Timmy looked like an accident. There were signs he’d fallen off a downed tree and into the water. Michael Walton looked more like a suicide.”
“Department is sure about a suicide without a body?”
“Michael left his shoes on the bank and carved ‘I’m not sorry’ into a tree. His dad died in the plant explosion. His mother is a hard woman. She had been a secretary at the plant until she got pregnant again, then taught piano lessons out of their house for extra money. Her baby was born without a brain stem. Lived a matter of hours. Mother lost her sight a couple years later. Became a recluse. She didn’t even report Michael missing. A friend of Michael’s hadn’t seen him for a while. I guess they used to meet up pretty regularly. He went by Michael’s house and he wasn’t there. About a week later, a teacher from the high school went looking for him in the woods and found his shoes by Cold River. They’d been there long enough to be covered in leaves and moss.” Captain stared at the boy’s picture. “He went to trial for an animal cruelty case when he was a kid. They tried him as an adult.”
“For animal cruelty?” Martin arched a brow.
“You didn’t see the animals.”
“So how did he end up jumping into Cold River if he went away for animal cruelty?”
“The jury found him not guilty.”
Martin studied him, saw the shifting of his jaw, the twitch at the corner of his mouth, then asked, “What do you think?”
Captain shrugged. “Doesn’t matter what I think. He got a fair trial, and his records are sealed. And he’s dead.”
“Right.” Martin’s attention returned to the boy peering out from beneath a veil of greasy, chin-length hair. I’m not sorry. His eyes didn’t look menacing or scared or sad or guilty. They were empty. All color and no depth. Two locked doors.
“Martin, no one has seen that kid in fifteen years. If he isn’t in that river, he definitely isn’t here. I never thought I’d have to beg you to focus on Ama and Hazel. Ticktock. Iceberg or not, you’ve got twenty hours to prove it.”
“Sorry,” Martin murmured as he angled his body to Hazel’s picture at the far end of the board. But as Captain began rattling off details of the day she disappeared, Martin couldn’t help glancing back at Michael one more time.
Stanton’s head and shoulders appeared in the door, his face lit up like Christmas morning. “Captain, the hospital called. Ama Chaplin’s awake and talking.”
Martin went stone-still except for his eyes, which swung to meet Captain’s shell-shocked gaze. Ama could connect every thread. If all these cases were somehow related, Ama could very well solve multiple murders.
“Go,” Captain said, and the single word sent Martin into motion. He swept several photographs and papers into a file, tucked them under his arm, and bolted for the door.
* * *
Four hours later, Martin stood in front of the closed door to the investigation room, the interview with Ama replaying in his mind. Through the narrow windowpane, he could see Captain still studying the board of pictures and notes. The older man planted his hands on his hips, his shirt wrinkled and partially untucked at his waist. Captain heaved a sigh and glanced at his wristwatch, no doubt wondering where Martin was and what he’d learned from Ama. Neither one of them had slept since the day before, and in that moment, Martin felt the full weight of utter exhaustion and the captain’s expectations crushing down on him. He put his hand on the doorknob, closed his eyes briefly, and walked into the room.