I made coffee, headed for the shower, and planned to spend part of the day where the last victim was found.
On the drive to the wildlife refuge I called Ron Hamilton. “What’s the last known address of the Bagman survivor, the last attack before the perp went underground? Didn’t she move to Jacksonville?”
“Give me ten minutes and I’ll see what I have.”
“I’ll be on my cell. If you can’t reach me, leave a message.”
“You gonna be unreachable by cell?”
“I’ll be in a wildlife refuge.”
“That where they found the last vic, the one was opened up?”
“That’d be the place.”
“Be careful, partner. The woods can be full of creeps.”
The primitive road into the St. Johns Wildlife Refuge was narrow. Room for one vehicle to travel either way. As I entered the refuge, the sunlight was diminished by the tree line. I could smell blooming honeysuckles, pine straw, and thick grass still wet from last night’s rain.
Within a ten-minute walk, I came to the crime scene tape that sectioned off the spot where the body was found. I began following the furrows, going deeper into the wildlife refuge. It was about eighty yards farther when I found the spot, I assumed, where the vehicle with the body had tried to turn around and got stuck in the mud. Even after the rain, ruts caused by the back tires spinning were deep. Rainwater had pooled in the bottom. I walked past the ruts, looking on both sides for broken limbs, bark, or logs.
I turned to head back toward the Jeep, but as I started to step over one of the ruts, the reflection of the tree line on the water caught my eye. A large sycamore tree stood less than twenty feet away. I reached into the dark water, my fingers feeling and sifting through small rocks, twigs, and sand. I pulled up three leaves and looked at the sycamore tree near me. In the dappled sunlight, I examined the leaves and wondered if there might be others, perhaps miles away, that were exact DNA matches to the muddy sycamore leaves in my hand. Was it possible? If so, and if I found leaves with the same plant DNA, it meant they could have come from only one place. The same tree.
FIFTY-TWO
In the Jeep I listened to the voice-message Ron Hamilton had left on my cell.
“Hey, ol’ buddy, as you’re running around doing the fun stuff, I’m back here in database central. Got a last known address for Sandra Dupree. You might get lucky and find her in Jacksonville at 17352 Old Middleburg Road. Phone company has no records in her name. I figured that. Happy hunting.”
Driving to connect with I-95 north to Jacksonville, I tried Leslie’s cell. No answer. Then I called her office. A male voice answered. “Homicide, Grant speaking.”
“Detective Grant, this is Sean O’Brien. Is Leslie around?”
“No, she came in and made a few calls and went right back out.”
“Do you know where I can find her?”
“Tampa. Says she has an interview with an older woman who’ll only open up woman-to-woman. Sort of a Barbara Walters interview. I’m getting used to it.”
“Sometimes, when it comes to gender, especially if the interviewee is older, a one-on-one with the same sex causes a better dialogue flow.”
“Yeah, I know. It just seems that Leslie’s moving at such a fast pace that we’re sharing more notes passing in the hall than we do in the field. She’s been keen on your helping us in the Jane Doe cases.”
“And now I could use some help.”
“Does this mean I have a partner again?” He laughed. “Leslie has a lot of respect for you, but since she’s my ‘part-time’ partner…whatcha need?”
“Can we meet?”
“When?”
“Now.”
“Give me ten minutes. Where?”
“Parking lot of the Waffle House on Dominion.”
It took Dan almost a half hour to get there. He pulled up next to my Jeep, got out, and walked over to me. “Sorry about running late. Slater wanted to chat.”
“And he’s such a compelling conversationalist.”
“In a monosyllabic four-letter-word kind of way. He wanted to know why I wasn’t with Leslie.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“Truth. Told him she had an interview and I was meeting with a source. The schedules conflicted, so she went to cover one and I did the other. I just didn’t say she went to Tampa and I was meeting with you.”
I reached in the glove box and took out the Ziploc bag with the tree leaves in it. “I need this tested.”
He chuckled. “I see you didn’t work narcotics.”
“But can you tell me its genetic makeup?”
“Get outta here. You want the lab to do DNA analysis on some friggin leaves?”
“You got it. If I’m lucky, I’ll find some matching leaves. It’ll be our job to find out how close they match.”
The home on old Middleberg road was mid-1960s, ranch-style, in need of paint. The yard was brown from lack of rain or irrigation. Dandelions grew like lettuce in places. A seven-year-old Honda Civic sat in the open carport.
I turned off my cell phone and knocked. There was no sound. The second time I knocked louder. I heard a woman talking to herself. Maybe to herself. I could tell someone was standing behind the door. I said, “Sandra, can I speak with you.”
Silence.
“Sandra, I hope you remember me. I drove up from—”
The door opened to the length of the chain lock. I could see a pasty face, cheeks sunken, dark circles under the eyes. I could smell the raw alcohol. In a tired voice, the woman said, “I remember you. Why are you here?”
“Just to talk a few minutes. May I come in?”
She said nothing for a beat, then slid the chain lock off and opened the door. The living room was dark. In one corner was a small television. It was turned on but the volume was off. The house smelled of Scotchguard and cigarettes.
I sat on the sofa, and Sandra sat in a worn chair opposite me. Her hair was dull, the brown now peppered in streaks of gray, deep-set creases around the edge of her down-turned mouth. “How have you been?” I asked.
“Like anybody, I’ve had ups and downs.”
“I remember your mother during the investigation. How is she?”
“Mother’s dead, Detective O’Brien. Cancer. Started in her ovaries and moved like wildfire. Nothing they could do. This is Mama’s house. I lived here as a kid. Moved back in for a while after the…after the rape. I was actually married for two years. I had good and bad days. After a miscarriage, what was left sort of fell apart.” She inhaled deeply and I could hear a slight rasp in her lungs. “Why are you here? Did you finally catch him or did somebody kill him?”
“Neither.”
She glanced away, her attention now somewhere else, maybe four years ago, but gone from the room. “Sandra, I think he’s back.”
She looked at me like she had noticed a painting on the wall was a little off center. I almost expected her to reach out to touch my face. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you are the only person who can identify him.”
“I’ve tried for years not to remember him.”
“He’s never stopped killing. Went from Miami to rural farms. Killing young women. And he’ll keep on until he’s caught or stopped.”
“If you find him, Detective O’Brien, are you going to arrest him or kill him?”
“I have to find him first.”
“That’s not a good answer.”
“I can’t arrest him.”
“Why?”
“I’m not a detective anymore.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I made someone a promise, and I’m trying to stop what I couldn’t stop four years ago. What can you remember about him?”