She pulled out a chair and sat. So much for small talk. “She’s either one of the best con artists I’ve ever met, or she just blew my past apart.”
His eyebrows knitted with curiosity. “How so?”
Melina began to unpack Bonnie’s statements. Even as she recited the facts about Lizzie Guthrie, she could not believe that she was talking about her own life.
Ramsey sat quietly, absorbing each word. If not for this case, Melina would never have shared any of this with a colleague. This man now knew more about her life than the parents who had raised her.
“You’ve never heard of any of this before?” he asked.
“No. Nothing.”
“Would your parents have kept it from you to protect you?”
“No. They have always been straight with me. What they know, I know.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m not sure about a lot of things right now, but that is one of them. It explains why social services couldn’t find anything on me. There was never a missing persons report filed. No birth certificate was found. Even my birthday was fabricated. My parents made it official when my adoption was finalized.”
“This is all assuming that Bonnie is telling the truth.”
She stabbed her fingers through her hair. “Oh, I considered that. But, I, too, am good at sniffing out liars.”
“Do you believe her?”
“I do.”
“Do you believe her because you want to? It’s very common for adoptees to hunger for knowledge of their past, even if it’s not corroborated.”
A devil’s advocate’s job was to challenge statements and debunk theories. “I considered that. But she knew I was left on the side of the road.”
He tapped his finger on the edge of the polished table. “I’ll run Lizzie’s and Dean Guthrie’s names through the FBI databases.”
“Thanks.”
As he typed a text message, he asked, “What does Bonnie want?”
“I think she’s going to angle for a deal. She’ll soften me up with the missing pieces of my life and then trade what she knows about the pickle jar for immunity.”
“You believe she knows the killer.”
“I’m convinced she does. She came back to Nashville to see him. She calls him Sonny, but that’s not his real name. His birth name is Dean Guthrie, but he doesn’t use it.”
“Oh shit.”
“And before you ask, I have no clue who the guy is. However, Bonnie says he knows who I am.” The creep factor on this case had certainly kicked up a few more notches.
“Bonnie comes to town to look up Sonny, and somehow figures you’re nearby,” Ramsey says. “She asks him for help. He refuses. She gets pissed and takes the evidence of his dirty work. Only Bonnie screws it all up when she wrecks the car. And you’re the cop that lands the case. Is that the gist of it, Agent Shepard?”
“Did she screw it up?” Melina asked. “That’s a hell of a coincidence.”
“You think she staged the accident?”
“I don’t know. I found cigarette butts near my car. There were several, and each was tipped in pink lipstick. I dropped them off at the lab, so I’ll know soon enough if they belong to Bonnie.”
“How did she find you?”
“My name was in the paper on a child abduction case.”
He reached for a folder, pulled out a sheet of paper, and pushed it toward her. “We’ve identified two more pickle-jar fingerprints.”
She glanced at the sheet detailing the unsolved homicides. The other two women had vanished in 2014 from Denver and 2015 from Dallas. “Neither had ties to the Nashville area.”
“So far, we know this killer targeted his victims from all over the country in four different major cities: Kansas City, Portland, Denver, and Dallas.”
“Accessible, large populations. Easy for a serial killer to move around unnoticed.”
“I have also located the sister of our most recent victim. Jennifer Brown’s sister lives in Nashville,” he said.
“Has she been notified of her sister’s death?” Melina asked.
“No.”
“What’s her name?”
“Kelly Brown. She’s forty-one and works as a bartender.”
Melina had made death notifications before, but they never got easy. Nor forgotten. “Give me her contact information and I’ll visit her.”
“I’d like to come along, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Ready?”
He rose and grabbed his jacket draped across the back of his chair. “I can drive.”
“Sure.”
In the car, she dialed Kelly’s number as he pulled out onto the main road. The call went to voicemail. She considered identifying herself but thought better of it. Better to see her reactions and hear the tones in her voice when she received the news. Until she could prove otherwise, everyone attached to any of her cases was suspect.
Ramsey crossed town in twenty minutes and followed the GPS to a small neighborhood. The houses were modest and one level, dating back to the turn of the last century. Their best days were long gone, and their residents were not likely far behind.
He parked in front of a white clapboard home with a small front porch. The summer heat had baked out the grass to a light brown, giving it the texture of straw. There were three vehicles in the driveway, including a low-riding black four-door and two trucks. On the side of the house was a rusted bike with a flat tire and a collection of stacked clay flowerpots that looked as if they had not been used in years.
Out of the car, Melina stood shoulder to shoulder with Ramsey as they studied the dwelling. Ramsey unbuttoned his jacket, and she pulled back the front of her jacket to slightly expose the holster and weapon underneath.
Cops could tell a lot about people by their homes. They all had to make snap judgments about the occupants based on a hundred different details all processed with each step toward the front door. Home visits could be surprisingly deadly. A warrant for unpaid parking tickets could lead to a shoot-out because the occupant was hiding drugs. Domestic disputes could also turn deadly, and cops had to worry not only about the abusive spouse but also about their codependent victim, who did not want to see their loved one in handcuffs.
She walked up the slate sidewalk knitted together with weeds and scrub grass and stepped up the two porch steps. Ramsey remained a couple of feet behind, one foot poised on the bottom step and the other on the ground.
On both sides of the door were windows, each draped in thick dark curtains. She rang the bell but did not hear the chime echoing in the house. She pressed it again and then banged hard on the worn screened door. It took several harder knocks before she heard footsteps moving toward the front of the house. A flutter of curtains to her right had her standing back and just to the left.
The door opened to a woman with tangled, long blond hair, a pale round face, and bloodshot eyes smudged with yesterday’s mascara. She regarded Melina as she swiped back hair from her face. An oversize red T-shirt hung over faded jeans.
“What’s this about?” she asked.
Melina held up her badge and identified herself. Ramsey did the same. “This is about your sister, Jennifer.”
“Oh, shit. What’s she done now?” Kelly asked.
“Your sister was found dead in her home,” Melina said.
Kelly pulled off a rubber band ringing her wrist and tied up her hair. “What? How could Jennifer be dead? She’s been clean for five years. Shit, did she have a relapse?”
“She did not die from an overdose,” Melina said. “The circumstances are suspicious.” Details about the homicide scene and especially the removal of the ring finger would not be released until the killer was caught.
“How did she die?” Kelly’s gaze sharpened, cutting away all traces of fatigue.
“We can’t say right now. Was there anyone in her life who could have harmed her?”
“Shit, are you saying it was murder?” Kelly demanded.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Kelly opened the door wider. “Want to come inside? The house is a wreck but seems I should invite you in.”
“Are you here alone?”
“No, my boyfriend, Gus, is here. He’s a bartender like me, and we both worked double shifts yesterday. We only got home a few hours ago.”
Melina crossed the threshold, pausing as her eyes adjusted to the dim light and her gaze swept the small living area. The thick scent of cigarettes and Mexican takeout lingered in the air as she examined the lone worn leather couch, wide-screen television, and coffee table stacked with used paper plates. In the corner was a makeshift bar covered in two or three dozen liquor bottles.
“Can you ask Gus to come out here?” Ramsey asked.
“Sure.” Kelly walked into the bedroom. “Gus. Cops.” She opened the door. “Shit.”
“What is it?” Ramsey asked.
“He’s gone. Out the bathroom window.”
Ramsey’s jaw tightened as he moved past Kelly into the room. When he returned, he asked, “What’s Gus’s last name?”
“Gaines.”
Ramsey scribbled down the name. “Is he wanted for anything?”
“No doubt.” Kelly picked up a few of the paper plates and dumped them in an overflowing kitchen trash can. “I can call Gus and get him back here?”
“Do it,” Melina said.
Kelly dialed the number. She sniffed. The phone rang. She held out the phone so they could hear. “It’s going to voicemail.”