Shepard removed a small notebook from her pocket, flipped to a clean page, and wrote down the name. “Which is her house?”
“The first on the right as you’re leaving. The street address is 2317.”
“Thanks. Mind if we have a look at the car?” Shepard asked.
“Be my guest.”
She crossed to the back of her SUV and fished out latex gloves. As she handed a set to him, he noted she kept the trunk of her car equipped with basic forensic equipment, MREs, flares, extra shoes, and rope.
Shepard walked past Ramsey, Jackson, and Sheriff Jones, her focus squarely on the vehicle. Her expression had shifted and sharpened with even more intensity. If the Key Killer case had been out of her wheelhouse, this one was not.
After looking inside the car’s driver’s side window, she circled around to the opposite side of the car. The airbags had deployed. The front passenger seat was covered in discarded fast-food wrappers, bags of half-eaten snacks, a few empty soda cans, and a few rumpled receipts.
A fine dusting of black powder on the steering wheel, door handles, and radio buttons told them the forensic team had started working the scene.
“Sheriff Jones, I see your guy has dusted for prints. Any luck?” Shepard asked.
“The steering wheel, dashboard, and door handles were wiped clean,” he said.
“What about the buttons on the side of the driver’s seat?” Shepard asked.
“Checked and also clean,” Sheriff Jones said.
He glanced back at the car seat. The harness was unhooked, done no doubt by Ms. Piercy or EMTs when the child was removed. Still, the driver would have handled the seat multiple times. “He should dust the sides of the car seat, as well as its underside.”
“I’m sure he did both,” the sheriff said.
“I don’t see powder on the car seat,” Shepard said. “Better check, Sheriff.”
“Will do.”
“Why not take the child?” Ramsey asked.
“Driver was injured and couldn’t carry the child,” Shepard theorized. “Maybe the girl was crying and making too much noise. Maybe the driver isn’t far from the scene now and is watching us. Or the driver is already at the hospital.”
“Hospital security is on notice to monitor incoming calls,” Sheriff Jones said. “We’ve also notified hospital staff to keep everyone other than immediate hospital staff away from the child.”
“Good,” Shepard said. “She’s alone, hurt, and frightened. She’s vulnerable to any kind of suggestion.”
Among all the clutter in the back seat were blankets, stuffed animals, and well-worn toys. In the car seat’s cup holder was a juice box with a straw. She touched the box, shaking it gently. It was still half-full and felt slightly cool to the touch.
“When was the crash called in?” she asked.
“Less than one hour ago,” Sheriff Jones said.
Shepard picked up a floppy stuffed dog covered in Goldfish crumbs. One of its eyes was missing, and the fur was worn off the ears. She brushed off the crumbs. “Sheriff, did your people find any signs of drugs in the vehicle?”
“A spent joint on the passenger-side floor,” he said.
“The driver was worried about the cops,” Ramsey said.
“Over a roach?” Shepard asked. “The driver was worried about something bigger than that. Sheriff, we’re out here because Agent Jackson said we needed to be. Time to tell us why we’re really here.”
“I heard you were a real charmer,” Sheriff Jones said. “What’s your nickname again? I forgot.”
“There are a few, but my favorite is Glinda, the Good Bitch.”
Jones sidestepped the comment and wrestled on a fresh pair of his own gloves and walked around to the driver’s seat. “We opened the trunk earlier, fearing someone might be inside. You never know. Once we determined what we had back here, we closed it right up.”
Tension rippled through Ramsey’s body as he braced. “Open it.”
Melina took a step back from the trunk and, out of habit, slid her hand to her weapon. She hated surprises.
The last time she had found a surprise in a car trunk, she was responding to a call from the Virginia State Police. A Staunton man had abducted his three children and was believed to be en route to Tennessee. When she received word that the car had been spotted, she caught up to the deputies just as they pulled the man out of the vehicle. They then opened the trunk and discovered the three children, ages two, three, and four. All three girls were badly dehydrated and had to be rushed to the hospital. The youngest did not survive. To this day, she could still smell the combined stench of urine, vomit, and cheese crackers.
The latch popped and the wide trunk lid slowly opened. The large interior was crammed full of an assortment of junk just like the car’s interior. There were a couple of large black roller suitcases, a small red cooler, a few garbage bags, and what looked like a large jar underneath a quilted blanket. A strong chemical smell emanated from the trunk and was enough to make her raise her hand to her nose.
“It smells like formaldehyde,” she said.
“I noticed it as soon as I opened the lid.” Sheriff Jones nodded to his forensic tech and asked him to start snapping pictures. “Once I took a look under the blanket, I called TBI.”
The sheriff gingerly lifted the quilt soaked in the chemical solution. The jar lid was not screwed on tightly. Someone had taken the jar lid off and not replaced it properly. The sheriff carried the damp blanket to a tarp.
“As soon as the deputy got a peek in the trunk, he hustled the child away from the car and halted the investigation. I got a good long look before I called TBI.”
In the right corner of the trunk was a large old pickle jar with the label still attached to the front and back. The top lid was green, and the glass was clear. At first, she thought what she saw floating inside the jar was some kind of pickled vegetable.
The sheriff grabbed the jar and, turning his face away from the contents, held it up for Melina and Ramsey. The sunlight caught the jar and reflected off the dusty glass, forcing her to refocus. When she did, she realized why she was here, as well as the FBI.
“May I?” Ramsey reached out for the jar.
“Be my guest,” Sheriff Jones said.
Ramsey tilted the pickle jar back until the dusty glass caught evening light that illuminated the interior. The murky liquid made it difficult to identify what was floating in the jar until he leaned it forward and one of the objects settled on the glass.
It wasn’t filled with pickles. Floating inside were human fingers.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Jackson said.
“Sheriff, have you asked the child about the jar?” Melina asked.
“Not the kind of topic I want to bring up with a kid. That’ll be your job,” Sheriff Jones said.
“Got it.”
The digits appeared to be all ring fingers, and they floated as Ramsey moved the jar from side to side. Several were shriveled with a pale, ghostly gray color and appeared to be from different individuals. Only one had nail polish on it, and it looked relatively fresh.
“Six,” Ramsey said. “Six fingers in the jar.”
“Six females? Six males? Both?” Melina asked.
“The fingers are small and appear to be female, but DNA testing will confirm that,” Ramsey said.
“Are they trophies?” Jackson asked.
“That’s exactly what they are,” Ramsey said. “Some killers collect their victims’ jewelry, underwear, driver’s licenses, or shoes. This individual keeps fingers.”
Her breath trickled through her clenched teeth. She stepped back and looked at the car’s California plates. “Sheriff, have you run these?”
“Of course. The car was reported stolen sixteen days ago from San Diego, California. I’ve put a call in to the local San Diego police and have asked them to locate the owner.”
“We need to get the fingers to the medical examiner’s office and have them determine if there are any usable prints,” Ramsey said. “We might get a hit in AFIS.”
Identifying the victims was a vital first step, but her priority was finding the driver and talking to the child.
“What’s your impression, Agent Shepard?” Ramsey asked.
His deep baritone voice sounded professorial. She straightened, tightening her grip on the stuffed animal at her side. “At this stage, I don’t know what to think.”
“Come on, you have thoughts and impressions. I can see it in your expression. Any thoughts about the driver, the child?”
“The child didn’t lack for snacks. The food isn’t nutritious, but standard fare for children. Snacks keep a child quiet.”
“True. But I sense the driver has genuine affection for the child,” Ramsey countered.
When she’d been about six, she had been famous for her meltdowns. Her mother had quickly started carrying Goldfish crackers and juice boxes. Even to this day, her mother knew a handful of Goldfish made her happy.
“This driver abandoned the child,” she said. Something her mother had never done. “The driver values self-preservation over the welfare of the girl.”
“Assuming the driver knew about the pickle jar’s contents, he or she is familiar with violent behavior.”