Her Last Word
Page 49
“He’s angry.”
“He’s certainly making a point when he calls her ‘My Girl.’”
“He considers her a child? Lesser than himself, perhaps?”
“Maybe. Or she’s a possession.” She adjusted her glasses again. “The text suggests their connection goes way back. ‘My Girl, remember that last summer by the river?’”
“He’s known her a long time, or he’s stalked her for a long time. What’re the chances it’s a woman?”
She shrugged. “Given the shapes of the letters and the nature of the crime? Slim to none.”
“What else?”
“The handwriting is deliberate and written with care. Note how well formed and neat the letters are.”
“Remind you of an engineer?”
“A drafter’s style exhibits a more specific block style, which I don’t see here. These letters also slant to the right, suggesting he’s left-handed.”
“Could all this have been written deliberately?”
“Sure.” She pointed. “The last note is different than the others. ‘My Girl, what is your biggest regret?’ It appears to have been written quickly, and the letter formations are slightly different than those in the first four. Basically, he’s showing more of himself here whether he realizes it or not.”
“Any indication of when it was written?”
“Unfortunately, no. But if you find this guy, and you can get a handwriting sample, I can match it, Detective.”
Forensic analysis was great at supporting an arrest in court, but when it came to finding a killer, old-fashioned detective work ran circles around the science. In the first few critical days after a murder, every hour counted. “There’s a heart drawn at the bottom of each page.”
She nodded. “It’s not symmetrical, but it also doesn’t feel casually drawn to me. And because it appears in each note, it has meaning to him. I understand the flowers under the victim’s bed were arranged in the shape of a heart.”
“Correct. Anything else?”
“The author chose a nice paper stock. White vellum. Not cheap. Makes me think it’s the second page of more formal stationary.”
“A brand used by one of a million offices?”
“I would say professional offices.”
“What else can you tell me about the author?”
“I’m no profiler, Detective. And some in law enforcement see graphology as one step above witchcraft.”
“Understood. Just looking for general impressions that will help narrow down the author.”
She paused over the third note. “The overall shape of the letters is smaller in scale. People who write smaller tend to be shy and more introverted. The spacing between the words is large, suggesting he likes his space. The edges are sharp, meaning he’s aggressive and assertive.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all I’ve got for now.”
“Have the techs had a chance to examine Erika Crowley’s car?”
“We are pulling prints, and I know multiple dark-hair samples have been found. Mrs. Crowley had blond hair, so we know they don’t belong to her. We did find samples of blond hair in the trunk as well as urine.”
“He put her in the trunk.”
“That’s my guess. I can tell you the GPS in her car tracked the vehicle path. It went directly from the yoga studio to the gas station on Route 1. A forensic technician did take several tire casts beside the vehicle.”
“He switched cars.”
“Most likely.”
“Thanks, Dana.”
As he left the offices his phone rang. It was Quinn.
“I just received a call from a local vet. A woman found a Siamese stray and dropped it off at the vet. He checked for a chip.”
“It’s Jennifer Ralston’s cat?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Where was the cat found?”
“Chesterfield County near Hull Street and Courthouse Road.”
“That’s twenty miles from Church Hill.”
“The vet had no other information. He did say his client is keeping the cat unless someone claims it. I have her name and number if you want to talk to her.”
“Okay.”
“I also received several more security videos of Erika’s house. I’ve been watching them for the last couple of hours. Brad Crowley last appeared on tape five days ago.”
“Five days. Erika vanished on Saturday. Did any of the neighbors make a comment about seeing him?”
“A few did. He came and went from the home several times a day, even during a normal workweek. Apparently, he liked to have lunch at home.”
“And Erika?”
“She doesn’t leave the house much. Just as her husband said, she travels to her yoga studio two mornings a week and that’s about it. Groceries and most clothing are delivered. She tells everyone she’s an artist and is working in her home studio.”
“So either she’s agoraphobic or she was a virtual prisoner in her home.”
The sun had set when he looked through the cab window to the tarp wrapped around Erika’s body in the bed of his truck. It was hidden under random debris so it wasn’t visible, though soon it would smell. He’d killed her in a spontaneous moment that he now regretted. He should have left her in her cell to rot.
He could have buried Erika. There were plenty of places he could put her where she’d never be found. But he didn’t want her death to be a waste. He wanted her found. Displayed. Erika would help send a message to Kaitlin. You’re next.
He started the engine and drove toward the city. The truck bed rattled, but Erika’s body was nice and snug.
As he drove toward the heart of Richmond on the expressway, police lights flashed in his rearview mirror and he tensed, gripping the wheel until his knuckles whitened. He was driving the speed limit. He’d used a turn signal when crossing lanes. What the hell?
The cop car hit his siren, a sure sign he had to pull over. Tension crept up his spine. His breathing grew shallow as he glanced in the mirror again and then back at the road.
He could stomp on the gas and make a run for it. But that wouldn’t end well. Better to stay calm and play along. He could fool anybody.
“I can do this,” he said to himself. “I can do this.” He repeated the words like a mantra until the stress eased.
He turned on his blinker and pulled off on the shoulder of the road. He reached for his driver’s license and registration. He rolled down his window and placed his hands on the steering wheel.
The cop got out of his car and moved toward the truck. He touched the tailgate to leave fingerprints, proof he had made contact if it all went sour, and then he walked up slowly along the truck.
“Good evening,” the officer said.
“Yes, sir. Good evening. Was I speeding?”
“No, sir, but your back taillight is out.”
“Really? I had no idea.” He handed the officer his driver’s license and registration. “Figured you need these.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror and watched the cop return to his vehicle and type his plates into his computer. The cop would search his record for warrants and other traffic violations, and he’d find only a fourteen-year-old speeding ticket. He was the good boy. Just play it cool.
“He’s certainly making a point when he calls her ‘My Girl.’”
“He considers her a child? Lesser than himself, perhaps?”
“Maybe. Or she’s a possession.” She adjusted her glasses again. “The text suggests their connection goes way back. ‘My Girl, remember that last summer by the river?’”
“He’s known her a long time, or he’s stalked her for a long time. What’re the chances it’s a woman?”
She shrugged. “Given the shapes of the letters and the nature of the crime? Slim to none.”
“What else?”
“The handwriting is deliberate and written with care. Note how well formed and neat the letters are.”
“Remind you of an engineer?”
“A drafter’s style exhibits a more specific block style, which I don’t see here. These letters also slant to the right, suggesting he’s left-handed.”
“Could all this have been written deliberately?”
“Sure.” She pointed. “The last note is different than the others. ‘My Girl, what is your biggest regret?’ It appears to have been written quickly, and the letter formations are slightly different than those in the first four. Basically, he’s showing more of himself here whether he realizes it or not.”
“Any indication of when it was written?”
“Unfortunately, no. But if you find this guy, and you can get a handwriting sample, I can match it, Detective.”
Forensic analysis was great at supporting an arrest in court, but when it came to finding a killer, old-fashioned detective work ran circles around the science. In the first few critical days after a murder, every hour counted. “There’s a heart drawn at the bottom of each page.”
She nodded. “It’s not symmetrical, but it also doesn’t feel casually drawn to me. And because it appears in each note, it has meaning to him. I understand the flowers under the victim’s bed were arranged in the shape of a heart.”
“Correct. Anything else?”
“The author chose a nice paper stock. White vellum. Not cheap. Makes me think it’s the second page of more formal stationary.”
“A brand used by one of a million offices?”
“I would say professional offices.”
“What else can you tell me about the author?”
“I’m no profiler, Detective. And some in law enforcement see graphology as one step above witchcraft.”
“Understood. Just looking for general impressions that will help narrow down the author.”
She paused over the third note. “The overall shape of the letters is smaller in scale. People who write smaller tend to be shy and more introverted. The spacing between the words is large, suggesting he likes his space. The edges are sharp, meaning he’s aggressive and assertive.”
“Anything else?”
“That’s all I’ve got for now.”
“Have the techs had a chance to examine Erika Crowley’s car?”
“We are pulling prints, and I know multiple dark-hair samples have been found. Mrs. Crowley had blond hair, so we know they don’t belong to her. We did find samples of blond hair in the trunk as well as urine.”
“He put her in the trunk.”
“That’s my guess. I can tell you the GPS in her car tracked the vehicle path. It went directly from the yoga studio to the gas station on Route 1. A forensic technician did take several tire casts beside the vehicle.”
“He switched cars.”
“Most likely.”
“Thanks, Dana.”
As he left the offices his phone rang. It was Quinn.
“I just received a call from a local vet. A woman found a Siamese stray and dropped it off at the vet. He checked for a chip.”
“It’s Jennifer Ralston’s cat?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Where was the cat found?”
“Chesterfield County near Hull Street and Courthouse Road.”
“That’s twenty miles from Church Hill.”
“The vet had no other information. He did say his client is keeping the cat unless someone claims it. I have her name and number if you want to talk to her.”
“Okay.”
“I also received several more security videos of Erika’s house. I’ve been watching them for the last couple of hours. Brad Crowley last appeared on tape five days ago.”
“Five days. Erika vanished on Saturday. Did any of the neighbors make a comment about seeing him?”
“A few did. He came and went from the home several times a day, even during a normal workweek. Apparently, he liked to have lunch at home.”
“And Erika?”
“She doesn’t leave the house much. Just as her husband said, she travels to her yoga studio two mornings a week and that’s about it. Groceries and most clothing are delivered. She tells everyone she’s an artist and is working in her home studio.”
“So either she’s agoraphobic or she was a virtual prisoner in her home.”
The sun had set when he looked through the cab window to the tarp wrapped around Erika’s body in the bed of his truck. It was hidden under random debris so it wasn’t visible, though soon it would smell. He’d killed her in a spontaneous moment that he now regretted. He should have left her in her cell to rot.
He could have buried Erika. There were plenty of places he could put her where she’d never be found. But he didn’t want her death to be a waste. He wanted her found. Displayed. Erika would help send a message to Kaitlin. You’re next.
He started the engine and drove toward the city. The truck bed rattled, but Erika’s body was nice and snug.
As he drove toward the heart of Richmond on the expressway, police lights flashed in his rearview mirror and he tensed, gripping the wheel until his knuckles whitened. He was driving the speed limit. He’d used a turn signal when crossing lanes. What the hell?
The cop car hit his siren, a sure sign he had to pull over. Tension crept up his spine. His breathing grew shallow as he glanced in the mirror again and then back at the road.
He could stomp on the gas and make a run for it. But that wouldn’t end well. Better to stay calm and play along. He could fool anybody.
“I can do this,” he said to himself. “I can do this.” He repeated the words like a mantra until the stress eased.
He turned on his blinker and pulled off on the shoulder of the road. He reached for his driver’s license and registration. He rolled down his window and placed his hands on the steering wheel.
The cop got out of his car and moved toward the truck. He touched the tailgate to leave fingerprints, proof he had made contact if it all went sour, and then he walked up slowly along the truck.
“Good evening,” the officer said.
“Yes, sir. Good evening. Was I speeding?”
“No, sir, but your back taillight is out.”
“Really? I had no idea.” He handed the officer his driver’s license and registration. “Figured you need these.”
“I’ll be right back.”
He glanced in the rearview mirror and watched the cop return to his vehicle and type his plates into his computer. The cop would search his record for warrants and other traffic violations, and he’d find only a fourteen-year-old speeding ticket. He was the good boy. Just play it cool.
