And that fascist cop, the one who came to each of his parole hearings and went over how he “found” the evidence in his truck. Bull-fucking-shit. The cop couldn’t have found anything in his truck unless he put it there himself. Brian hadn’t killed that girl.
Brian had been at home when the girl was killed. He had nothing to do with it. And now the bitch who squealed and the cop who lied were being shown for the fucking hypocrite liars they were.
It felt so damn good to breathe free air.
Then why did his heart hammer so hard? Why did his hands tremble? He felt light-headed, and he didn’t like it one bit. Something was wrong.
“Hey, Miles, I don’t feel so good.”
They were standing outside Folsom Prison. Miles Bledsoe, the latest in a long line of public defenders, had been yapping at him about something inane, which Brian ignored. He was good at that. He’d had to ignore the stupid fucks on his cell block yapping all the time, the sisters screwing each other in the dark. Blocking out the bullshit became second nature.
Miles frowned at him. “You look pale. But it’s probably just relief at being out of prison after thirty-four years. I was saying the state rented you an apartment for six months. Enough time to get you back on track, time to find a job.The standard reimbursement for wrongful imprisonment is $100 a day, which I calculated to be just over $1.2 million. It’ll take six to eight weeks to process the claim, then the Legislature has to approve it before they can disperse funds.”
“Speak English, college boy.” Brian shook his head, trying to clear the uneasy feeling that clung to him. Everything was too bright, almost like he was detached from his body and watching the exchange with his attorney. He wasn’t sick. It was something… else.
“You’ll get $1.2 million, but it might take some time,” his attorney said.
“Holy shit.” A million dollars? He’d be set for life.
“The only problem,” Miles continued, “is you did lie to the police when you were arrested, and your truck-”
“Who cares? I didn’t kill that girl.”
“But the district attorney can still file charges if-”
“Look, Miles, just do your job and let me do mine. The D.A. won’t file charges because I’m innocent. I didn’t kill that girl; I didn’t kill anyone. Where’s my pad?”
Miles blinked, then handed Brian the notebook he held.
Brian threw it to the ground. “Shit, Miles. My pad. My apartment.”
“Oh.” He blinked again and Brian wanted to bitch-slap him. He didn’t, of course. Miles was his ticket to a million bucks.
A million bucks would set him up for life and help him find that bitch who put him here.
And the cop.
And that old fucking prosecutor who stared at him with such contempt in the courtroom. This man raped and killed a child. Bull-fucking-shit. He didn’t touch children like that. Only disgusting, sick perverts got their kicks from kids.
Payback. A million dollars would go a long way toward payback.
But somehow, it didn’t seem enough for thirty-four years of his life.
DNA EVIDENCE FREES CONVICTED MURDERER
Brian Harrison Hall once faced death penalty; now exonerated.
Incredible. Harry was out of prison.
He’d read the article twice to make sure he had the facts straight. Truth be told, he was surprised Harry had ever been convicted in the first place. The evidence was circumstantial at best. But Harry-being the stupid dumb-shit he was-had lied to the police.
Served the blowhard right. In his fifty-five years, he’d rarely met a blowhard, lazy-ass jerk like Brian “Harry” Hall.
“Hey, dude, come to the Bay Area with me and we’ll score.” By “score,” Harry had meant find a couple of women to take two Vietnam vets under their wing. Console them and give them blow jobs whenever they wanted.
Harry had no comprehension of women. Just like he had no understanding of discipline. Cleanliness. Order.
But Harry did have a job lined up and promised to get him in. So he had joined him in California.
Neatly, he folded the newspaper along the creases and placed it at the corner of the small, glass-top table in the cottage he’d been renting on Vashon Island for the past year. He didn’t need to look at the clock to know it was time to leave. The sun crested over the Sound, a lush, vivid sight of which he never tired.
He could retire here.
But he wouldn’t. Settling would be foolish; moving was the only way to truly cover his tracks.
He’d be moving again soon.
For now, he had a job to do.
The cottage didn’t have a dishwasher, but he didn’t mind. He took care to wash his coffee mug, plate, utensils, and the single pan in which he’d prepared his bacon and eggs. He dried them completely and put them where they belonged. He folded the damp towel and hung it precisely on the rack he’d installed on the wall next to the sink. His chair was pushed in just so; the crumbs on his place mat carefully shaken into the garbage; then the garbage-only a quarter full-taken out to the trash can by the side of the house.
The thought of letting garbage rot in his house all day made him ill.
Another quick glance at the newspaper got him thinking again about Harry as he locked up the cottage and walked to his job at the beachside restaurant.
Stealing Harry’s truck that long-ago night had been a spontaneous act. He hadn’t known exactly what he was doing, just a vague idea. Then he saw her and knew. She’d been sent to him, to replace the Angel he’d lost. He had quickly formed a plan, and it had been almost perfect. He frowned, thinking of the spunky little brat who had tried to stop him. Then he returned the truck before Harry had even noticed its absence.
What he hadn’t expected was the police finding the truck, but that discovery ended up being a blessing.
He’d learned many important lessons after Harry was convicted of murder.
Be careful. Don’t leave any evidence of yourself anywhere.
Keep moving. Be patient. Don’t rush. Let the sweet anticipation build, but control it. Don’t let the need control you. Be smarter than the cops. Know when to move on.
It was all a matter of discipline. Something he’d been taught well.
One niggling mistake soured the otherwise pleasant day. Harry had been released because of DNA evidence, which meant the authorities had his DNA.
He would have to be doubly careful from now on.
CHAPTER 4
Olivia grabbed the paper as it slid off the laser printer, her eyes scanning the information, her heart beating fast as her theory solidified.
Patterns.
Missy’s killer had left Redwood City after her murder, probably because Brian Hall had been arrested and was going to take the fall for Missy’s death. He lay low for a couple years before resurfacing in New York, where he raped and killed four blonde girls in the Albany suburbs before disappearing.
Then two in Lawrence, Kansas. A known sex offender was arrested, tried, and convicted and was now sitting on death row for those murders. But Olivia was ninety-nine percent sure that man was innocent of those particular crimes.
Four more girls killed in Atlanta.
Four in Nashville.
The list went on. Years separated his crimes, but Olivia had uncovered twenty-nine murders in thirty-four years that fit the same pattern.
Blonde girls between the ages of nine and twelve.
Sexually assaulted. Underpants taken.
Dumped facedown in a relatively public location, usually a rest stop off a sparsely traveled road, or an industrial park at night.
The reports she had access to were sparse. She wished she could view the autopsy reports and the lab notes, but most were not computerized. The older the crimes, the less information she had. But the key commonality, the factor that convinced Olivia she had found the link, was the missing lock of hair. The killer had been taking “souvenirs” from his victims, a piece of his victims he could see or touch to relive his crimes.