“Come in when you’re finished and you can warm up.”
“Soon,” Whitaker muttered. “We’re about done out here.”
“Thank God—it’s colder than a well-digger’s butt.” Brennan looked at Jenna, his blue eyes assessing. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’ve never really minded the cold. Winter’s usually my favorite time of year.”
CHAPTER 35
The sheriff’s department was a madhouse. Even though the FBI and Oregon State Police were involved in the kidnapping and murder cases, the department was stretched thin, plagued with new problems. With damage from the storm, icy roads, shut-ins, power outages, and idiots like the kid who broke his pelvis in eight places while trying to scale Pious Falls, his men and women had more than they could handle. The press had convened in Falls Crossing en masse despite the bad roads.
A search party had been started for Lynnetta Swaggert. The group was largely made up of volunteers—neighbors, friends, and members of the church—who were already tired from tromping through the snow-covered woods and fields looking for Sonja Hatchell and Roxie Olmstead. Even the Explorer Scouts, young people who aspired to be cops and were often used in searches, were weary, cranky, and cold to the bone. A usually eager group, they were dispirited with the prospect of yet another search.
Carter sat at his desk behind an ever-growing pile of paperwork, a couple of empty coffee cups, and a stack of phone messages he hadn’t returned yet. Most of the paperwork would have to wait. The missing women were the highest priority, and Lynnetta’s husband was making the most of the grim situation.
The Reverend Derwin Swaggert had been on the television, dry-eyed but shaken, spouting about God’s will and asking for prayers for his wife. A candlelight vigil was planned for this evening, and The reverend was encouraging everyone to pray not only for Lynnetta but for the other missing women as well.
Morale was low.
Deputies and office workers alike needed a break.
Even BJ wasn’t herself.
She stopped by his office and shut the door. “You know, I have a problem with Ian Swaggert, a big problem. He’s still hanging around Megan, and the kid is trouble, but this…” She lifted a hand and let it fall to her side. “This is real bad.”
“We could still find her.”
“Alive!” BJ snapped. “We need to find her alive.”
Jerri tapped on the door and dropped two sheets of paper on his desk. “Fax for you,” she said. “From Jenna Hughes.”
BJ said, “What kind of fax?” as Jerri left and closed the door behind her again.
“A list of makeup studios who specialize in monster-making.” He quickly scanned the list. “Companies that might use alginate for molds.”
“What are you talking about?” She was interested, leaning a hip against his desk, reading the list upside down as he explained what he’d found out and how he thought the alginate might be the link between Mavis Gette’s murder and Jenna Hughes’s stalker.
“You’re serious about this?”
“Absolutely.”
BJ studied the list and scratched her arm. “I don’t know, it’s pretty far-fetched,” she said. “Did you tell the feds or OSP?”
“I called Larry Sparks. He said he’d check it out. Run it by the FBI. They’ve got a profiler working on the serial kidnapping case now, but they’re still not convinced the cases are linked, so maybe this’ll help.”
“Or maybe they’ll laugh you out of the office.”
He snorted. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” Running a finger down the typed names of the companies, he said, “Now, what we need is a roster of their employees and anyone with roots up here, maybe someone who was working for them in California and moved north.” His eyes narrowed and he tented his fingers under his chin as he leaned back in his chair, making the old metal groan. “And we need to find out if any of them are or have been missing alginate. Did you have any luck finding out if any suppliers shipped to anyone around here?”
“Other than the dentists?” She shook her head. “No.”
“What about Portland? Or Vancouver? Even Seattle. Somewhere within driving distance.”
“Still working on it.”
“Good.”
Another tap on the door and Jerri stuck her head in. “KBST is camping out in front,” she said, “and one of the reporters, a”—she glanced at her note—“Brenda Ward, wants to interview you.”
“Not now.”