“Probably because if he loves what he’s doing, he’s not going to stop unless we make him. And we haven’t had much luck so far.”
Fifty-One
Trent was eating from a bag of chips and swigging back coffee when Amanda returned to her desk with her own refreshed mug. They hadn’t really hit pay dirt before by searching the CCRE, so they decided to go at things from another angle. Latching onto the possibility that their suspect was affected by sex trafficking, they took to the internet. It was at their fingertips and didn’t require getting the FBI involved. She and Trent had been searching for several hours and weren’t getting anywhere.
“There are more instances of crimes and murders related to sex trafficking than I would have guessed,” Trent said.
“Sad fact.”
“What if… and I hate to even say this… but what if our suspect’s story isn’t out there to find? At least not how we’re looking for it.”
“Oh, my God. I officially have a headache.” She massaged her temple.
Another few hours passed with no forward progress. She might be better off directing her attention to the Pansy Shoppe, if for nothing but a change of pace.
“Steele, Stenson.” It was Malone headed their way, and she was surprised to see him here so late. But they were dealing with an ugly case. He was just outside her cubicle. “I heard back from the uniformed division sergeant. Our suspect and Ashley Lynch were at the Ritter Motel in Dumfries. Same trick. Adjoining rooms. Paid in cash.”
“Dumfries… Woodbridge,” she mulled over out loud. “He really is doing all he can to evade the sex-trafficking people.”
“And went from ordering one girl to two,” Trent pointed out. “Just another way to cover his tracks. They wouldn’t think it was the same person ordering the girls, even if the type was the same.”
“Uh-huh,” Malone said. “Obviously, the room at Ritter’s is no good to us for processing, with that being five nights ago.”
“That’s all? Feels much longer ago than that.” She rubbed her head again. Time to call in help. She took an ibuprofen from her desk drawer and swallowed it with a swig of water.
“Got a call from the CSIs who processed rooms at the Sunny Motel,” Malone went on. “The only forensic trace they deemed to be evidence was a palm print they lifted from the back door of room eight. But, before you get excited, there was no hit in the system.”
“Hardly even worth mentioning,” she mumbled, feeling extremely discouraged with the lack of progress on this case.
Malone snapped his jaw shut. There was anger in his eyes. “I believe in open communication, Detective. Along those lines, you should know video was collected from the Sunny Motel, and stills of both our murder suspect and the handler are being run through facial recognition programs.”
Hopefully, they were of better quality than the photo Amanda had sent of their suspect in the crowd across from 532 Bill Drive. The good news was that since they had the Devil’s picture now, there was no need for Crystal Foster to sit down with a police sketch artist. She could just start getting on with her life. But hearing about the stills also made her think of something else. “Can we expect to get a copy of the photo array that includes our prime suspect?” There would be one out there, as the officers would have used it when asking around at motels.
“I’ll make sure it gets to you.”
“And it probably wouldn’t hurt to get copies of the stills from the video.”
“I told CSI Blair to send those along.”
Amanda would be checking her email as soon as Malone left.
Malone nudged his head toward their desks. “What are you doing now?”
“Searching older, similar cases. And having no luck so far. I was actually just about to take a break from that and look into the Pansy Shoppe,” she said. “We know the van wasn’t theirs, but why would our suspect put their logo on his van? Maybe he’s pointing us there for some reason.”
“Could be. All right, carry on, but don’t spend the night here.
Cut out no later than midnight. Neither of you are any good to me dead on your feet.”
Amanda glanced at the clock on the wall. 9:45 PM. After a couple of nights of little sleep, she’d happily go home and crawl into bed now. “You got it.”
“Just a word, Amanda, before I leave.” He motioned for her to follow him to his office.
He closed the door behind them. “You asked me if I’m all right lately. I’m not. And it’s not entirely to do with the LT.” He gestured to the chair across from his desk and dropped into his. “It’s come to my attention that you may have received correspondence from the killer early on in this case.”
Her heart thumped rapidly. This had to be about the note at the cemetery. She sat down. “I meant to tell you.”
“I don’t want to hear excuses, Amanda. I want you to talk to me. How can you expect me to help you if you don’t?”