some money, and let him poke around a few days. I never expected to find out something like this.”
Tears began to leak from his eyes. One slipped down his cheek and plopped onto his arm. When Kat absently wiped it away, her hand remained there.
“I know this is hard,” she said. “But I promise that Nick and I are going to find out who did this.”
Thinking she might have promised too much, Kat said no more. She didn’t know if they’d be able to find out who took all those boys. That was ages ago, and evidence and witnesses were probably few and far between. But she at least had to try. Charlie and the other boys deserved that much. So did Maggie Olmstead, whose dogged pursuit of information had led them to that point in the first place. And so did Eric, who was grappling with feelings he never knew existed for a brother he had barely known.
Sitting on the porch, looking out across an expanse of grass that had been rendered brown by the summer sun, Kat leaned over and wrapped an arm around him. She gently guided his head to her shoulder. Then, sitting in stillness and quiet, she let Eric weep.
EIGHT
“Why the hell didn’t anyone see this?” Kat said.
Nick didn’t have an answer. His best guess was that perhaps because of distance, apathy, or simply poor police records, no one had noticed the pattern. No one had realized that six boys vanished in Pennsylvania, during each of the six moon missions. Most of the incidents looked like accidents, after all, and accidents were less likely to draw suspicion.
“Maggie Olmstead saw it,” he said.
“Then why didn’t she tell someone?”
Again, Nick didn’t know. Maybe she had been embarrassed. Or maybe no one believed her. Having been one of them, he knew how cops worked. Meek housewives who claimed to know something they didn’t rubbed them the wrong way. This was especially true forty years ago, when even the best cops had a chauvinistic streak.
All Nick really knew was that his case, the one the Sarah Donnelly Foundation had been recruited to investigate, was about to be taken away from him. If it hadn’t been clear after he helped Kat move the wall of victims from the Olmstead dining room to the trunk of her patrol car, it became so with the words Kat spoke next.
“You know this is now an official police matter.”
“I know,” Nick said. “And just to let you know, that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop my own investigation.”
“I would be disappointed if you did.”
They were sitting outside the elementary school in Kat’s Crown Vic, waiting for class to be let out. Every other car in line at the curb was a minivan or SUV. Most of them were gray. Nick wondered how James felt about getting picked up from school every day in a police car. The way kids acted nowadays, they’d think it was either badass or embarrassing. He hoped James was on the badass end of the spectrum.
“I’ve been thinking about your theory that our bad guy lived in Fairmount and Centralia. It’s logical. It makes sense.”
“It’s also wrong,” Kat said. “Isn’t that what you’re getting at?”
That was exactly what Nick was trying to say, and he was pleased Kat had come up with it herself. Upon their first meeting, Nick had to give her a crash course on the thought process of your basic serial killer. Now she knew enough to understand her first theory might not have been the correct one.
“It all comes down to the first victim,” Nick said. “In this case, Charlie Olmstead.”
Nine times out of ten, victim number one wasn’t a random killing. Most serial perpetrators stayed in familiar haunts and acted out only when triggered by something—or someone. That’s why the first victim was so vital. Often, the perp had previous contact with them. Catching the bad guy was usually the result of winnowing down where and when that contact had occurred. In the case of Charlie Olmstead, that meant—
“The killer spent time in Perry Hollow,” Kat said as she
Tears began to leak from his eyes. One slipped down his cheek and plopped onto his arm. When Kat absently wiped it away, her hand remained there.
“I know this is hard,” she said. “But I promise that Nick and I are going to find out who did this.”
Thinking she might have promised too much, Kat said no more. She didn’t know if they’d be able to find out who took all those boys. That was ages ago, and evidence and witnesses were probably few and far between. But she at least had to try. Charlie and the other boys deserved that much. So did Maggie Olmstead, whose dogged pursuit of information had led them to that point in the first place. And so did Eric, who was grappling with feelings he never knew existed for a brother he had barely known.
Sitting on the porch, looking out across an expanse of grass that had been rendered brown by the summer sun, Kat leaned over and wrapped an arm around him. She gently guided his head to her shoulder. Then, sitting in stillness and quiet, she let Eric weep.
EIGHT
“Why the hell didn’t anyone see this?” Kat said.
Nick didn’t have an answer. His best guess was that perhaps because of distance, apathy, or simply poor police records, no one had noticed the pattern. No one had realized that six boys vanished in Pennsylvania, during each of the six moon missions. Most of the incidents looked like accidents, after all, and accidents were less likely to draw suspicion.
“Maggie Olmstead saw it,” he said.
“Then why didn’t she tell someone?”
Again, Nick didn’t know. Maybe she had been embarrassed. Or maybe no one believed her. Having been one of them, he knew how cops worked. Meek housewives who claimed to know something they didn’t rubbed them the wrong way. This was especially true forty years ago, when even the best cops had a chauvinistic streak.
All Nick really knew was that his case, the one the Sarah Donnelly Foundation had been recruited to investigate, was about to be taken away from him. If it hadn’t been clear after he helped Kat move the wall of victims from the Olmstead dining room to the trunk of her patrol car, it became so with the words Kat spoke next.
“You know this is now an official police matter.”
“I know,” Nick said. “And just to let you know, that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop my own investigation.”
“I would be disappointed if you did.”
They were sitting outside the elementary school in Kat’s Crown Vic, waiting for class to be let out. Every other car in line at the curb was a minivan or SUV. Most of them were gray. Nick wondered how James felt about getting picked up from school every day in a police car. The way kids acted nowadays, they’d think it was either badass or embarrassing. He hoped James was on the badass end of the spectrum.
“I’ve been thinking about your theory that our bad guy lived in Fairmount and Centralia. It’s logical. It makes sense.”
“It’s also wrong,” Kat said. “Isn’t that what you’re getting at?”
That was exactly what Nick was trying to say, and he was pleased Kat had come up with it herself. Upon their first meeting, Nick had to give her a crash course on the thought process of your basic serial killer. Now she knew enough to understand her first theory might not have been the correct one.
“It all comes down to the first victim,” Nick said. “In this case, Charlie Olmstead.”
Nine times out of ten, victim number one wasn’t a random killing. Most serial perpetrators stayed in familiar haunts and acted out only when triggered by something—or someone. That’s why the first victim was so vital. Often, the perp had previous contact with them. Catching the bad guy was usually the result of winnowing down where and when that contact had occurred. In the case of Charlie Olmstead, that meant—
“The killer spent time in Perry Hollow,” Kat said as she
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