“I’ll take it,” I said. “Anything you can do. But first—get me a name.”
“A name, to the face, to the asshole,” he said. “No prob. I’ll get back to you by the end of the day.”
CHAPTER
37
BY 9 P.M. I’D PUT IN A FULL WORKDAY, FOLLOWED BY A LATE DINNER WITH the family, homework with Ava, more homework with Jannie, and a chapter of Percy Jackson with Ali before bed.
I wasn’t going to say no to the six-pack of Cigar City Brown Ale that Sampson showed up with, just as Nana Mama and the girls were settling in for an episode of Once Upon A Time. John, Bree, and I took the beer up to my office in the attic and got back to work.
“Catch me up,” John said, twisting off a cap. “Where are we?”
Bree unwrapped the red figure-eight string from a big manila envelope and took out the case materials she’d picked up that afternoon. A tan clip folder and several black-and-white crime-scene photos spilled onto her lap.
“I’ve been cross-referencing cases all day, and I found this. I can’t say it’s definitively tied to Elizabeth Reilly, but it seems like a red flag, anyway.”
She picked up the crime report and looked it over as she kept talking.
“The name’s Amanda Simms. Ran away from an abusive home in West Virginia at age fifteen. Then no sign of her at all for eleven months, until a maid found her body in the tub at an Econo Lodge in Takoma Park. That was four and a half years ago.”
“Four and a half years?” Sampson said. “What’s the supposed connection to Elizabeth Reilly?”
Bree turned one of the crime-scene photos around to show him. John looked like he felt sick to his stomach.
“She was pregnant,” Bree said. “The autopsy showed heavy doses of Rohypnol and morphine. All indications are that she was drugged, cut open, and left for dead.”
“And the baby?”
“Never found.”
“Jesus.” John scrubbed at his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. We’d all had long days.
“So basically,” I said, “we’ve got a young girl, away from home for the first time, and pregnant. All of that’s in line with Elizabeth Reilly.”
“What about this phantom boyfriend, Russell?” John asked.
Bree shook her head. “I’ve got nothing. Presumably, that’s not his real name.”
“But let’s assume he’s part of the picture,” I went on. “Maybe Elizabeth finds out about Amanda somehow. She figures out her boyfriend is a monster, and she’s carrying his baby. That could go a long way to explain why she’d go all the way to Georgia to induce labor.”
“For that matter, maybe Amanda’s not the only other one,” Bree said. “I’m still looking.”
After a long stretch of silence, Sampson spoke up again.
“You said something else on the phone this morning. This blogger. What’s his deal? And why’s he hating on you?”
“Good question,” I said, and pulled up The Real Deal on my desktop. There was a new entry now, “MPD Whiffs Its Own Press Conference.” It had been posted at four that afternoon, and it already had ninety-two comments. Word was definitely getting out on this thing.
“He’s either got a vested interest in Elizabeth Reilly, or against me,” I said. “Or both.”
“Or,” Sampson said, “maybe he’s just looking to make a name for himself—trying to establish the blog and get some attention with a couple of big stories.”
“Y
eah, well, he’s got my attention,” Bree said. She was at least as put out by the whole thing as I was—most especially by that picture of Kinkead’s from the night we were there.
“Alex, let me take a run at this guy,” John said. “You’ve got five homicides on the line. Six now, if we’re counting Amanda Simms.”